Distraction
by WhenLighteningStrikes
Summary: It doesn't take much to see that the problems of three little people don't amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world. Someday she'll understand that. Casey/Derek/Sally. Post Futuritis.
1. Chapter 1

**a/n - **_Spoilers for the end of LWD. Casey-centric (and my first time writing her! Dunno what she thinks, really. Derek's boy-mind is easier to penetrate.)_

* * *

She goes to all his hockey games.

(Secretly. Just to scope out all the cute guys, obviously.)

She just sits there, with a big, floppy hat on her head (a semi-effective disguise) and doesn't look at him at all. (It's just that he's so much over the place, he comes into the periphery of her vision a lot.) She doesn't understand any of it, but she goes.

She holds on to them. These moments. And pretends that Emily's with her, gazing at him with starry eyes and constantly whispering _your step-brother is such a hottie_ in her ear. That Sam will look up from his position, and raise his hockey stick to her in mock salute, and then Derek'll hit him over the head, and then later tell her to _stop distracting my players, God! Casey, don't you have some lame-o thing to go to. _Memories of a time when they were reluctant stepsiblings. Sworn enemies and occasionally…not-enemies.

Not what they were now. Strangers.

(She wonders if he knows she didn't mean it quite so literally when she told him to stay away from her in college. Because - fun fact – she didn't.)

* * *

He's standing at her door. The same door that he hasn't ever stood in front of. The same door that she'd expected to see him at months ago, when she moved in and realized she was sharing residence with the hottest girl on campus. (She's not thought about it or anything. Because how lame would that be? Her wishing that he would hit on Lyra, just so she could see him again. Yeah, beyond lame.)

"We need to talk."

(They were breaking up? What, did he have some kind of treaty drawn up, absolving any kind of tie with her?)

"Do we?" she asks, and she _hates _her voice for betraying her. For breaking, just when she needed to be calm and collected, because she hasn't missed him. Not one bit. "I don't think so. Unfortunately, Rick is waiting for me inside. And I don't remember asking you to join us."

"Rick? You're not supposed to have a guy in here after ten, and you know that." His jaw tightens slightly and she feels a rush of…something. Because this doesn't change. Never.

"And you have, of course, been keeping to the rules like the good little boy you always were." Because she's not blind or deaf. As much as she tries to pretend he doesn't exist (or he effectively pretends she doesn't exist) she still _hears _and _sees_. Her university bathroom wall is starting to read like the bathroom wall at Thomson J. High. But this time around there's nobody to pester her for inside information because –fun fact- nobody knows she's his step-sister. Or that she knows him at all. (That was her dream universe, a life _without _Derek, and now she has it. Funny, she never realized you could choke on triumph.)

"Dad and Nora will flip."

"Only if you tell them."

"It's kind of my duty, don't you think? Being your brother and all."

("You're the most _annoying _brother." "Step-brother." "Same difference.")

She's suddenly tired. "What do you want Derek?"

She looks up at the same moment that he does and suddenly he smirks. And it's so _familiar, _it makes her insides clench painfully. She wants to throw her arms around him and have him push her off with that freaked look in his eyes, and reinstate his 'No Hugging Policy' or stand there silently, with a long-suffering look on his face, even as his body softens beneath hers.

"What a loaded question. Let me see, I've a lot more things added to the list since I visited 'Wet n Wild' with Krysta yesterday. Like whipped cream, and flavored cond…"

"De-_rek." _

She can _feel _herself turn red, and curses herself. Because this is _college. _She's supposed to be cool, and mature. Didn't her brain get the memo? Even after four months of not talking to her, he still had the same effect on her. Complete disorientation. (And a complete breakdown of her morals.)

"_Why _are you here?"

"Sally's coming here."

She's genuinely confused. Was Sally one of his new conquests? "Sally…?"

"Sally Salic. Remember?"

(No she doesn't. Not at all. She doesn't remember the look in his eyes when he talked about her. She doesn't remember the song he wrote for her. She doesn't remember that he _loved _her. Why would she? He wasn't the center of her universe or anything; she didn't have to remember everything about him.)

"Sally's coming…here?"

And suddenly she realizes what's different about him. It isn't his hair or his clothes. It's that air of suppressed excitement, the almost wild elation in his eyes, that had made her catch her breath a little. He came to her because he needed someone to know, and she would understand. Sally was coming back.

"Wh…I mean wasn't she in Vancouver?"

"She's coming for the summer term, on a project. Something to do with Women's Rights."

"And she got Queen's?" (Inhale. Exhale. See it's that simple.)

"She chose it. There were several options."

And finally she gets it. Sally wasn't just coming back; Sally was coming back for _him_.

(Of course she's happy. Sally was the only person to get him to act like a remote relation of the human species. What was there not to love? She's ecstatic.)

"That's…great! When is she coming?" And she sounds like the preppie girl she used to be. Before she entered this place, and the centre of gravity of her universe shifted.

"Tomorrow."

"Why are you here?" she avoids his eyes.

"I just told you, Sall…"

"No, why are you _here_?"

"Because you're the only one who knows her, and she's going to need a place to stay."

(_Needs a place to stay. _So that's why he was here. Not that she'd expected anything else, because when it came to him, she'd given up expecting a long time ago.)

"What makes you think _I _have space? Why don't you keep her in _your _dorm, that's what you want, anyway."

He was looking at her quizzically, as if trying to assess her damage. "Who are you kidding? You wanted a fourth roommate. You've done nothing but bitch about you present companions. And you know Sally. Funnily enough, the girl with a taste good enough to date me also had the bad taste to like _you._"

"How did you know I wanted another roommate?"

"Lizzie told Edwin."

She knows he'll hold the stare for as long as it'll take to drive her crazy.

"Fine." Because who are they kidding, what Derek Venturi wants, he gets. Some things never change.

She turns to go back inside. Being with him was always absolutely too much and yet never enough.

"Have fun with _Rick_." He calls from behind her, his voice sounding like he's patented sarcasm. And then he's gone.

She looks back one more time, and doesn't wonder why she never told him she'd been talking about Casablanca.


	2. Chapter 2

_**a/n- **Just saw 'Derek's School of Dating' and what the hell was I thinking? He loves Sally, how am I going to change that! I should have chosen an OC. _

_**disclaimer: **Not mine._

* * *

She misses high school.

Well, maybe not _high-school _per se. Because who wouldn't want to be away from the place where everybody knew your 'Top 10 Most Embarrassing Moments.' How many times you'd been dumped and the number of times you'd Klutzilla-ed.

She'd started from Klutzilla-nicknamed-by-Derek-Venturi, gone on as Derek Venturi's Grade-Grubbing-Keener stepsister, to Derek Venturi's stepsister, to just plain Casey McDonald (Derek's stepsister.)

(She never realized how much of her life had been linked with his, until _after _it all ended. Which is…cool. Because she needs to make a name for herself, right? And to be in a place where her Keener-quotient is _appreciated_. Not dissed.)

Here she's Casey McDonald, the totally together scholarship-winner, who'd most definitely go places. (Only because he hadn't been around to completely ruin her reputation. So he was totally doing her a favor.)

But…she was _someone_ there. She'd been utterly neurotic and a total freak-out-zone. But she'd been…herself. They'd thought her crazy but they'd still loved her for it.

(She misses _that_.)

* * *

When Sally arrives, it's all different. And it's all the same.

She's still beautiful. Gut-wrenchingly beautiful. Still as sharp, and just as much oblivious. (-Fun Fact- Derek still loves her, not that she cares.) Within two days she has both her dorm mates eating out of her palms, and telling her secrets. (Because that was just the kind of person she _was. _Totally sweet, understanding, and _everything_. The fact that Derek liked her probably worked against her.)

He's around a lot too. Her other roommates have given up on trying to seduce him, and still haven't forgiven her for not telling them _you're related to him. _(She's not. Don't they fucking get it?)

"You know," Sally says to her one day as they're baking brownies, "I thought you and Derek hadn't changed at all. But I just realized something, you guys never dissent when I call you his sister now. It used to be all-'He's _not _my brother." "Sister? Puh-lease. Does it _look _like we share the same DNA? I wonder when that happened."

("You're the most _annoying _brother. "Step-brother." "Same difference.")

She doesn't say it. Irony can be so fucking ironic sometimes.

* * *

Sally's there at all his hockey games. She drags Casey, protesting, and says that he needs her moral support.

(He does? She'd have said the same…four months ago. That he _needed _her, even though he didn't realize it. After all who would fix him up when he got into stupid 'I'm The Man' Face-offs? But apparently, all this time he was perfectly capable of managing himself.)

But she goes. Just because (she's insane.)

And there are times when he looks up at them, and gives his by-now-trademark cocky grin. The thing is he's so far away that you can't tell whether it's meant for her or Sally.

(That isn't important. It's just an interesting observation on delusions of the neurotic mind. She's a Psych major, so she knows these things. It isn't the _reason_ why she goes to his games or anything. Pfft.)

* * *

The sudden cheering in the stands probably means that they won.

Sally's shrieking next to her, and she tries to bring about the right kind of glow to her face. (Even if her heart had been in her mouth the entire time. The only purpose of the puck seemed to be to hit, when the players couldn't hit each other.)

They're at the locker rooms. "Derek!" Sally cries, and throws herself into his arms, "You were _amazing_!"

(It's like he's the exception to all rules, and she's the exception to all his rules. Whatever happened to no PDA?)

She turns away, her stomach plummeting down to her feet. (After all who'd want to have the image of their step-brother in that position?)

"Casey? Casey McDonald?" She turns to see one of the players addressing her. A definite 9 on the Emily-scale. She racked her head, "Richard?"

His grin widened at her recognition, "Yeah! What are you doing here?" Maybe he catches her expression, because he immediately amends it with a, "Sorry, that was a stupid question. But I really didn't think you liked hockey."

"Why wouldn't I?"

He pretended to think, "I don't know. Just a vague impression I got when you said it was the most uncivilized show of testosterone by Neanderthals whose primary aim in life was to exult in their brute strength by inflicting their manhood on a poor, defenceless object that sounded like a swear word."

She blushes, and for a moment she's in high school all over again. "Verbatim."

"I pay attention. So that's why I wondered. Or…maybe you're here for someone…?"

(The thing between then and now is that she can tell fake casualness. She's practically the mistress of it.)

He looks at something behind her and the smile slides off his face, "Derek," he acknowledges, resignation creeping into his voice.

She doesn't turn around, because she doesn't need to.

"Richard." He nods, stiffly.

Richard looks at them, "You're with him. I should have guessed. He has taste to match his hockey skills."

The thing that strikes her is: he's not saying anything. Her embarrassment quickly transforms into anger, because who the _hell _does he think he is? Why wasn't he clarifying? It's not like he needed her there, so she's damned if she's going to let him stand there claiming ownership. She smiles up at Richard, "I came here for a friend. I _hate _hockey. But she dragged me along." She gives him a you-know-how-it-is-shrug, and feels an almost vicious satisfaction when Derek stiffens behind her.

"Sorry man," Richard says ruefully, "But you usually spell Strike Out for the rest of us. Finally a girl who isn't interested in you! A Godsend!" He bows dramatically to her, and in a long time, she finds herself laughing. (Not at his words, because then she might just start crying.)

She's all-too-aware of him, and she doesn't know why. (Four months ago, she could have been on top of him, fighting for the remote, and she wouldn't have noticed. Maybe she's gotten un-used to it. It's all his fault.)

"See ya later, D. And Case," he stops, as if giving her time to consider his usage of her nickname, and when she doesn't say anything, continues in a lower tone "I know you hate hockey. But when you put aside their testosterone-filled need to assert themselves physically, the players aren't _that _bad."

And then he's gone. And she ignores the alarm bells clanging inside her head.

_ _ _ _ _

The car-ride-from-hell seems never-ending. Sally talks excitedly about the game, and she tries to understand. But the whiteness of his knuckles on the steering wheel, coupled with the thought of a definite confrontation gives her a migraine.

(She catches his eye in the rear-view mirror once. She doesn't look up again.)

_ _ _ _ _

(And isn't it so typical of her life that just when she needs Sally, she's not there.)

She doesn't look up from the book she's reading, but then she doesn't need to. Whenever he's in her gravity, she can _tell_.

"Does it happen often?" He says it so abruptly, she almost jumps.

"Does what happen often," she asks blankly.

"Funny." His voice couldn't be further from amused. She tries not to let her bewilderment show. "Like today. Do guys try to pick you up often?"

She can _feel _her mouth drop open, because this…this was so completely unexpected, it throws her off-balance. She'd expected a "Stay the hell away from _my _friends," not…this.

And oddly enough the need to giggle is the most important, but as his eyes narrow dangerously, she tries to hide her quivering lips.

"Not…half as often…as you'd... think." She manages, unsteadily. Because the idea of men thronging to seduce her makes it difficult not to laugh outright.

She looks up, and to her utter disbelief, he's actually _angry_. "Don't lie."

(Could somebody take her to the door _out _of this alternate universe?) "I fail to see how it's any of your business. What happened to Clause No. 49 McDonald-Venturi Treaty: No Interference in Private Matters?"

"I'm your _brother, _Casey; I've to look _out_ for you."

("…the most _annoying _brother." "Step-brother." "Same difference.")

"Look out for _Sally_. I can manage on my own, very well, thank you."

He gives her a long warning look and slams the door on his way out.

(It's only later that she remembers he didn't use the most potent weapon he could have- Truman. She would, after all, never cheat.)

* * *

She had missed Derek

(Well, obviously not _Derek_.)

After all, who wouldn't want to be miles away from the person who ruined their lives in every which way possible, pranked them at every available opportunity, and insulted them almost gleefully.

But Derek had always brought out the most extreme in her personality. The good and the bad. When he wasn't there, she didn't feel as much. The colors were a little duller, and the light a little dimmer. The stark reality changed to vague impressions. All that was left was the afterglow. And it was hard to be less than she actually was, because she wasn't about the soft contours, she was fire.

With him, she been…she'd _been_.

She'd missed _that_.

Not really.

Kind of.

(Maybe.)

* * *


	3. Chapter 3

_**a/n- **Such a wonderful, wonderful chance for some Trollman bashing, and I couldn't do it.  
Ughh._

_( And a special thanks to all my anonymous reviewers; AnimeRox, Dorinda, Sarah, Dasey-love, Mo, since I haven't been able to reply personally :)_

* * *

She used to like control. She might even have been in love with it. She understood cool, clear-headed logic. In fact she thrived on it.

(And then he had rushed into her life and; _head meet disorientation_.)

* * *

By the time he comes in from his last class, she's sitting on her bed, dry-eyed. Sally holding her. He stops short, then…

"Sal, is there something you'd like to tell me? Like a recent change of sexual preferences, perhaps. Casey, I've always had doubts about, but you?"

Then maybe he catches a glimpse of her, because he's by her side in a nanosecond. "What happened?"

Sally looks discomfited, "Truman…he broke up with Casey."

She catches Sally giving him the be-nice expression, while she gets up. "I'll make you some herbal tea, okay, sweetie?"

She nods, or maybe she doesn't. She doesn't really know what various parts of her body are doing at that moment. They don't have any connection with her brain for sure.

He just sits there by her side, and she keeps looking straight ahead.

(The thing is; nobody will understand. They'll sympathize and curse Truman with her, but she knows that every single person will be thinking the same thing: it was going to happen.)

They never understood why she liked him. He was a jerk, a complete cad and had resorted to underhand means to get her attention. But…

(She doesn't _know. _It had felt right. He didn't agree with her when she wasn't right, he challenged her, called her up on her bullshit. And he would do the occasional things which made her feel as if he really _cared_. For once in her life she hadn't felt _predictable_. She'd been the rebel. For once she'd known what it was like to be Derek…or Truman…or well, not herself.)

He sighs dramatically and looks at his watch, "You can start now. But five minutes _max_."

She doesn't reply, so he continues, "Ranting, I mean. Since I know you're probably dying to. Truman is scum; Truman is a slime-bucket. And De-r_ek _somehow this is all your fault."

She still doesn't reply.

"Call Emily."

"Tried. She's not picking up." She can _feel _him looking at her. Probably as surprised by her tone as she herself is. (She's too tired. Too tired to pretend everything's fine. Because it _isn't_. It isn't fine, okay?)

"Don't sound like that." He puts a finger under her chin and raises her head, trying to meet her eyes. She still stares resolutely at the fabric of her comforter. "Casey, _don't sound like that_."

"You know," she swallows hard, and smiles slightly (manically probably, by his sharp intake of breath) because it strikes her as hilarious, "You were…right. Truman _has _changed."

"You're defending him?" His voice sounds loud, but maybe it's because he's so close (why the hell wasn't he moving away. Couldn't he "be nice" from the other end of the room?) "He doesn't need defending. He's absolute scum. Some people never change."

(Like you, she doesn't say. Because _he _has changed, hasn't he. Why couldn't she have been Truman's Sally?)

"No…I mean," she stops, because her brain refuses to cooperate and let her jumbled thoughts transform into coherent words. "It's just…he broke up with me."

"I know." And his voice is gentle, like that day at that party where Truman had kissed Vic…toria. It throws her off-balance slightly. Because this wasn't comfort-zone, this was something…else. And she's not sure how to handle it.

"Derek, he _broke up _with me. He could have easily…cheated. We're so far apart. He could've kept me hanging, and then pretended nothing was wrong, but he _broke up with me_. He did the _right_ thing.

(_Then _she starts crying.)

* * *

"Here." He tosses her the phone.

She looks up, he'd moved out at the first sign of tears (_big surprise_). "Who…who is it?"

"Em." He avoids looking at her.

"_What. _But I couldn't get through and…"

He scratches the back of his head (like he always does when he's uncomfortable) "Yeah. Emergency number. I asked her mom. I mean you're _you_, this is probably end-of-the-world-emergency in your vocabulary, and you need someone to listen to your freakish rants, and you think…"

"You called up your ex-girlfriend. The one still waiting for you to discuss post-breakup _feelings_?"

He backs up, hands held out, "Hey, hey, don't get used to it, okay. I just have better things to do at the moment than sit here with you."

She holds up the phone (why can't she stop _crying_)

"Em...?"

* * *

"Come."

She's still lying on her bed (not thinking about Truman at all. Not one bit.) when he re-enters her room for the third time.

"Where?"

"We're going." He's jangling the car keys, and it makes her head hurt.

"_Where_?"

"Are you sure you're allowed to be as annoying as usual? Doesn't it violate the script of your life- 'The Most Clichéd Thing To Do In Every Occasion.' And that thing in this situation would be to act like a zombie. So you should just _stop _asking questions and just _come._"

She gets out of the bed slowly, feeling strangely weighed down. But she has to do this. (Even if it's only to make that concern in his eyes, that he's trying so hard to hide, _go away _because it makes the knot in her stomach ten times worse.)

She goes to the mirror and makes a great show of looking all over her skin.

"_What _now?"

"Just looking, you know. For that tattoo. The one which reads 'Property of Derek Venturi.'"

She can see him smile slightly in the mirror and it's stupid and cliché but she can't tear her eyes off. "You'll have to go deeper than that, Case. I'm probably in your bloodstream by now. Running through your veins. There's probably not a part of you left that doesn't scream my name." He stops abruptly, probably realizing it had come out sounding completely, utterly, irrevocably _wrong. _

(And it's hilarious that there's nothing funny about it.)

So she sighs, "Why are you doing this."

He avoids looking at her, "I thought we could put up with a little…sibling bonding."

("…_annoying _brother" "Step-brother" "Same difference.")

They're silent for a minute. And she notices the stark details, the tinge that the blazing sunset leaves on the walls. (The reddish-brown strands of his hair.) The sky-blue of her comforter. (The flecks of green in his brown eyes which she's too far away to see.) The mirror relecting the lamplight on her cheekbones. (The soft curve of his lip. Could the mouth that produced so much venom, look so soft?) And she gets a little drunk with it all. The sharp contrasts, the color, and _everything. _It's what she's living on, breathing in.

But life doesn't wait for her to complete her pause, and she gets it, (finally) "You mean _Sally_ thought we could do with a little bonding." (She just repeated what he said almost verbatim, so what if she forgot a word in there somewhere. It isn't criminal or anything.)

"It's all right, Derek. We can pretend we had a nice time together, and I'm completely fine now. You've completed your _duty_. Go tell Sally she needn't withhold her kisses any longer."

(Those broken shards of her heart are really beginning to cut off her air supply. Is there some sort of operation for that?)

He takes hold of her shoulder in pure frustration, "_God, _Casey. Can you stop it! You're not fine, okay. What d'you want me to do? Get on my knees and _beg_?"

It's only for a millisecond, but she still has it. The imagery. He's down on his knees in front of her and...(and she's sick with the guilt.)

(Besides he doesn't beg. He takes. She knows that. It's generally her kneeling before him. All _he _has to do is look at her and say _please _and suddenly she's singing love songs for _his _girlfriend.)

"Please…"

(She hates him sometimes.)

* * *

_**a/n-** Derek saying "Please" like that in Open Mic Plight (It took me a year to come out of the ecstacy-induced coma.)_


	4. Chapter 4

**a/n- **_Had to re-write the entire damn thing. Ugh. I'm so annoyed. Serves me right for editing chapters without saving them._

_**disclaimer: **It's a disclaimer._

* * *

(She's not sure what they call this relationship).

* * *

"I can't believe you actually chose to keep this…this _thing _instead of letting George buy you a new car."

He takes his eyes off the road to look at her, then rolls them and looks back, as she acts out in excruciating detail what can happen if he doesn't. "The _Prince _is a classic. Me and this car have some great memories together."

"This car and _I_", she corrects automatically (Her brain is on auto-pilot. She's so glad it's just Derek; she doesn't need to think with him. Instinct takes over).

He looks vaguely outraged, "You've been taking the Prince out without asking me?"

It was her turn for the eye-roll, "Never mind. What 'great memories' are these anyway?"

He raises his eyebrows suggestively and she feels her face heat up (College is a joke, she obviously belongs in kindergarten).

The silence stretches on and it's almost…comfortable.

(Then she remembers the guy who'd been her entire _life _for the past six months, the one who she'd gone to her _prom _with, who'd told her he was scared of the intensity of his _feelings _towards her, had just broken up with her).

* * *

Derek pulls over, by the roadside. "Breathe", he says shortly.

And she wants to hit him because she'd _breathe _but when shards of your heart are cutting into your windpipe, it's kind of hard. (She can almost hear his 'always the drama queen' in her mind and it makes her even angrier).

"I want to go back", she snaps.

He rubs the back of his head tiredly, "Didn't we already get past this?"

"Well maybe I decided I don't want to spend my time with a guy who thinks tears are a waste of his time."

"And yet I came here with you, even though you're a regular, fully-functional water fountain", he answers; the sarcasm cutting through her sharply.

She makes a movement as if to get out of the car. He pulls her back almost reflexively, hard. Till her head is on his shoulder, his arm suddenly around her waist. "Why do you do this?"

(He's so close he's whispering now, and it makes her want to scream. _Stay the hell away_. But she _can't_ because he's a _good_ brother helping his sister out in heartbreak, so really she has no reason to).

"Stay _away_." She says is anyway. Because (did she mention she's insane?)

His jaw sets in a stubborn line but he doesn't let her go. (_I'll never do what you tell me to_).

"Do…what?" She asks finally, reluctantly (he's…in an incredibly strange, Derek-kind-of-way…trying to act _evolved_ here. So she shouldn't completely ruin the unexpected development).

"Break." He doesn't look at her.

"_What?"_

"_God_, Casey. Every time you break-up with someone, it's the same. You look like someone took a hammer and smashed you."

(Does he really think he's being _compassionate_ or something?)

"Do you think you're being…compassionate?"

He sighs softly, "they aren't worth it, you dimwit. None of them are. And Truman wasn't _ever_ worth it."

(She doesn't think about it often. But just _once_ she'd like to know why he'd tried to set her up again with Truman, even while he was so convinced he was totally wrong for her. Not that she's thought about it. At all).

"Oh, excuse me", she says sarcastically, "I'm so sorry I'm wasting your precious time with dramatics here. I'll just run down to the local market and buy super-glue for my heart. That ought to do the job. And this from the guy who'd planned on running _away _with his girlfriend. Leaving _school _and moving in with Sally."

She's pressed into him so she can _feel _the tightening of his body (and quite suddenly it's even harder to breathe. Question: Do people die from pieces of their broken hearts cutting into their respiratory organs?) "That was different."

"Different", she scoffs, "how so?"

"I l...iked Sally."

(Just because her brain is on auto-pilot does not mean it's stopped processing pauses).

"I l...iked Truman too."

He laughs derisively and she's one small _step _away from murder (_step, _like that _step _she'd been away from being his sister and now wasn't..."_annoying _brother" "_Step_-brother." "Same difference.")

"_Puh-leez. _You just liked being the rebel for once."

(She _hates _the way he can read her; like a freaking children's book...)

"You probably had it all playing out in your mind. A mask. A babe-raideresque outfit. Black, tight leather."

(...and play her like a freaking violin while he's at it).

His grip tightens on the steering wheel, and her body-temperature rises to 'search for third-degree burns' level).

"Stop it", she whispers (and where is this blood for all her non-stop blushing coming from anyway? Do broken hearts continue to pump blood? Or does it imply that, contrary to all evidence, her heart isn't...broken?)

"Stop what?"

"Stop imagining me...in black...leather."

He swerves the car back on the road and grins irreverently.

* * *

She's still speechless.

"An...Ice-cream parlor. You brought me to an _ice-cream _parlor?"

"Isn't this what girls do? Drowns their sorrows in a triple chocolate fudge chunk or whatever. That's what happens in every movie."

(She doesn't know what she'd expected. Maybe a nightclub, or dinner somewhere _loud_. Somewhere he could lose her easily. Somewhere that proved he was only doing it for Sally's sake. It was much easier that way).

"You watch too many movies, Venturi."

"Hey, I don't _watch _movies. Movies are the background to all the _real _action."

He's grinning up at her and she's not sure why but she thinks he's just upped his charm quotient. Moron.

She looks up at the sound of the door opening and the couple walking in makes something in her chest catch painfully. She doesn't know _why_. They don't even look that much in love.

(Although the difference between then and now is that she can totally see through an act. No matter how experienced the players are).

They've already started arguing and she _really, really _doesn't want to see this. Not now.

Her stupid step-brother (apart from being stupidly sort-of..._caring _occasionally) is also stupidly psychic.

"If you start crying right now I'm going to call up Nora and tell her."

(She'll have to rethink the _caring _part a bit. He's just annoying. A stupid, annoying boy who turns on the charm like a damn faucet).

"I'm not...crying", she manages (and this is his cue to leave, because guess what...she totally is).

"You're beautiful."

(They say your heart doesn't _actually _stop till you're dead. She'll probably win the Nobel Prize for disproving it).

He leans over the table (and there should be a clause in their joint 'McDonald-Venturi Rulebook' telling him how close to get because he gets _too damn close_) and brushes her hair back (and this is so totally not happening).

"Really?" And _hates _her voice for sounding so small.

(Maybe he catches it. Maybe he doesn't. Maybe it's all in her messed up head and she really needs to find another Paul soon).

"_No", _he says exasperatedly.

(And it hits her like a physical blow; o_f course _he doesn't mean it. Because when he calls her _beautiful_ she's supposed to sit and wait for the punch line. Four months ago she'd have known that).

"When was the last time you looked in the mirror?"

He drags her along, and she doesn't protest, till they're both standing in front of the full-length mirror.

"You look like an extra on the 'Night of the Living Dead', your eyes..."

He's still speaking (and it's...him...so this is his incredibly weird way of showing..._concern _or something) but she's tuned him out. Because.

(Because she's struck by their image. The mirror doesn't show two _siblings _standing and fighting. It shows a guy with his hand slung over a girl's shoulder. His body pressed into hers. His face so close to her ear that it looks like he's whispering words that are making her blush a little. His reddish-brown hair falling against her neck. _Liar_).

Her eyes are suddenly caught by the girl across the room. The guy she'd come with has left, and she's sitting all alone. She's looking at them, and the expression almost makes Casey hurt, because she's seen that look before (_mostly in the mirror_). A bittersweet mixture of despair and craving. (_And yesithurtsohgod_).

Derek is still whispering, listing all the things that are wrong with her, but she's only concentrating on his cool breath on her warm skin, the feel of his hand on her, the soft almost seductive tone of his voice (and she wants to shut her eyes and play _pretend _like she used to when she was six).

She catches her gaze, and holds it. They're staring at each other and for some inexplicable reason the other girl flashes her a bright smile and mouths "_he's hot_", giving her a thumbs up. And suddenly it doesn't feel like her heart was broken at all. So she smiles back in instant camaraderie and she _knows, _she knows this...this looks like something...it's _not_.

(But sometimes --just _sometimes_-- it doesn't matter).

"Umm...wow." Derek looks taken aback by her sudden lift in mood, "If I'd known I'm _this _good, I'd have been using these insults on a lot more girls."

She looks at the (_stupidlying_) mirror once again...and smiles.

* * *

**a/n - **_Derek's voice-- think the time in Summer School Blues when he's telling her she's in way over her head. The guy gives seduction a new name. :)_


	5. Chapter 5

_**disclaimer**: Santa doesn't like me :(_

* * *

(He'd once told her she knew nothing about love. He'd told her to come and tell him she knew what _love _was like when she'd thrown out her color-coded lists, because she couldn't classify what she was feeling.

She's sitting there now, with pen poised over notebook, colored markers in the other hand, trying to write -_tryingohgodsofuckinghard-_ but there are no more words.)

* * *

Sally opens the door, and immediately puts her arms around her. And for some reason it feels warm, and safe…like home.

"Hey", she says softly, stroking her hair "You alright now?"

"She's all right. _I'm _the one who had to put up with her crying all evening."

"De-_rek_" she and Sally say simultaneously.

She turns to look around at Sally. Because. (Because it had sounded so _wrong. _Like…like that version of his name wasn't completely and totally _hers_. Like…like he wasn't hers to talk about.)

Derek groans, "Not you too, Sal. One Casey is enough. My name'll be permanently damaged if everybody keeps ripping it apart like that."

(And she'd like to think –_oncejustonce-_ that he says it because he knows it as well as she does; De-_rek _belongs to her. And yeah, she knows _exactly_ how much of a fool she is.)

"Hey Derek!" says Lyra from her position on the couch, radiating exuberance (and it's not as if her incredibly hot room-mate is sitting around on a _Friday _night just to catch a glimpse of her stepbrother. Nope, not at all.)

"Hey…Lyra." And everybody in the room knows he's turned his charm on 'high'. Because he's Derek, it's what he does.

She giggles a little, twirling a lock of her hair (and high school just _never ends_) and then her eyes slide past him to rest on her, the smile sliding off.

And then…then she can practically hear the 'Twilight Zone' music in the background. (Because _Lyra?)_ She moves forward jerkily, like a bad camera-shot taken by amateurs. Right into Lyra's outstretched arms. And then she's _hugging _the girl who takes an hour out each day to point out what's wrong with her outfit, the same girl who calls her all variations of the word geek, the girl who equates spending time with her to an appointment with the dentist. _That _girl is whispering "He must've been a moron. How could he not see how amazing you are?" in her ear.

Totally normal.

She remembers the girl at the parlor whom she'd never seen before, and now Lyra who'd disliked her since she first entered the campus, and _then _it strikes her…

(Heartbreak. It's universal.)

* * *

She's lying on her bed (not thinking about mirrors at all) when they enter her room. And even through her half-dazed state she can see that what they're wearing isn't exactly normal 'Hey-we're-spending-a-Friday-at-home wear.'

"Right," Lyra's saying decisively, "I choose red. I'll help make those dark circles look intentional."

"I know! I have this gorgeous red dress, it'll definitely fit her. We're almost the same size."

"Umm…guys?" she says tentatively, "I'm the one who's supposed to be disoriented here."

And by their surprised looks she can tell they hadn't even registered her presence.

"Get up, we've work to do."

(Question: when you don't have a heart any longer, does your mind work faster to compensate? Because she knows what they're talking about.)

"I'm not going." She says flatly.

"Sure you are." (And they're both even _speaking_ in sync. Someone give them matching pinafores already.)

She really doesn't want to go to some random party. Where she'll have to watch all these happy couples, and pretend to be the same (because she's _not _happy. She's bitter, and tired, and she just wants to sleep_._)

She's about to protest again, when a memory hits her, so sharp, she can almost _feel _it happening. Truman is kissing this girl who looks like her (but _isn't _her) and she's standing there, watching. Because that's where she always ends up- on the sidelines. Max goes with Amy, Truman with Vicky, and she's always left right _there_. With a stupid break-up box and nobody to give it to.

(His voice is so clear in her head, she almost shivers, "_Haven't you ever wanted to live a little dangerously._")

Yeah, she's going.

* * *

"She's not going." He says flatly.

"Of course she is," says Sally outraged, "Why wouldn't she?"

He looks directly at her, "Don't you have to cry yourself to sleep tonight or something? "

She dully registers it probably wasn't meant to hurt so much (_butitdoesithurts._) "Why? You're afraid the fact that you know me is going to ruin that 'rep' you spend so much time building?"

He doesn't say anything.

"Can't you pretend not to hate me for one night?"

"I'm not sure," he says sarcastically, "When you make it so hard." His scornful eyes rove over her, and she feels mortified and completely exposed. That's all it takes. One look.

(She's argued with Sally about the dress. But she _wasntwasnt _going to let Derek know that. She would show him she could be one of those girls he lusted after. That she could be wild. And desirable.)

She doesn't look at him as she moves out into the dark night towards the car.

* * *

She doesn't know the name of her host. Through the drunken haze of her mind, it stands out. And it makes her giggle. (Because she's being rebellious, and totally _anti-_Casey. And this feels _good_.)

"Hey gorgeous."

She looks up to see another nine on the Emily-scale. (How had she never noticed that her college was teeming with them? Being away from Truman was definitely a good thing.)

"Me?" she says, and there might be incorrect grammar involved but she doesn't care. This is Casey Danger McDonald.

"Of course you," his voice is soft and it sounds a bit like Derek's, like he'd sounded in the car "Not one woman here to match up to you."

"Derek thinks I'm ugly," she pseudo-whispers confidingly, "I'm the ugly stepsister nobody wants. Maybe that's why he didn't visit me those first four months. Because I'm ugly."

"Derek must be crazy." Somewhere in between, he'd put his arms around her, and it feels warm, and comfortable.

"He is…he's extremely…"

But apparently her new friend has tired of hearing about Derek. "Do you want another drink?"

"Yes, please." She says obediently, as he hands her one.

"So beautiful," he whispers, and she likes the way he's looking at her. Like he believes his own words. Like she's not Casey McDonald- scholarship winner, Keener Extraordinaire, but instead Casey McDonald, the mystery woman whom random strangers label _gorgeous_.

So she turns and smiles up at him. She feels a little dizzy, so she rests her head on his shoulders. And suddenly she's telling him everything. How Derek left her, about Sally, about his hockey games, about _everything_. His free hand slides up and down her thigh, slowly, and it feels nice. It makes her shiver a little. It feels so…

"Casey?"

They both turn at the sound of his voice. He's standing there, and she's never seen him look like that before, it makes her head spin even more.

"Venturi? _You're _the Derek she was talking about?"

And suddenly her arm is in Derek's vice-like grip. "What happened to you?" He turns to face the other guy, "Paul" he says in grim recognition. "If you've touched her, I _swear _to god, I'll..."

Paul looks at him challengingly, "She's obviously moved on, why don't you take a hint and do the same, Venturi?"

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

"You abandoned her when she needed you."

She can see his figure still, "_What_?

She wants to protest. Why are they talking about her in the third person, she's right _there. _But she can't speak, it hurts too much.

Lyra's by her side in a trice, "it's okay," she whispers, "we'll get you out of here in a second."

_But Derek, _she wants to say. Paul's a nice guy. He thinks she's gorgeous.

But she doesn't because she can't think anymore.

* * *

She wakes to the sound of voices, harsh voices, they make her head hurt. It's two in the morning. And she should close her door (but Edwin and Lizzie have taught her well.)

"What the hell were you trying to prove, Derek?" and it sounds like Sally, but she's never heard Sally scream before. It isn't like her.

"Nothing." His voice is grim.

"It isn't enough you have this stupid on-field rivalry with Paul, but now you've to…"

"It has _nothing _to do with that, okay?"

"So _tell _me. What _did _it have to do with, then? Because from where I'm standing it looks like you _wanted _to hit him. And now you have a scar to show for it. Congratulations, Derek."

"_God, _Sally. What he did to Casey was…"

She can see Sally stiffen, her eyes growing careful, "He did nothing to Casey. You know that. She's just not used to alcohol, and she hadn't eaten."

"Did you see how he was looking at her? He was fucking _touching _her, Sal. A minute more and he'd have taken her to one of those rooms above."

"You can't stop guys looking at her, Derek." Sally snaps, "She's grown-up. And she's capable of making her own decisions." She stops abruptly, and then continues, "She didn't look as if she _minded _being touched by him. You've got to _stop _with this whole brother-complex thing, okay?"

His voice is low, "No. She doesn't enjoy being groped. She's _Casey_. She just doesn't understand all...this."

Sally's radiating disbelief, "Is Casey a five letter word for chastity? She's a woman, Derek. And as much as you keep trying to pretend otherwise, she has her needs."

He runs his hand through his hair in pure frustration, "Casey doesn't have needs. She's practically asexual. And this is why I didn't want to take her along. Don't you know _anything _about her? Have you ever seen her look that vulnerable? She was easy prey for any player with smooth lines. She wanted to feel desirable, and you played right up to that."

Sally's face is practiced blank, "What do you mean."

He laughs. Once. And she's never heard a sound more devoid of humor. "That dress, Sally. That fucking dress. All it did was make every guy there want to take it off."

(She can see Sally's mask crumble a little. She's seen that expression so many times in the mirror today.)

She can't hear her, but Sally's mouthed, "Did you?" reaches her eyes.

"Did I what?"

"Did _you_ want to take her dress off_?"_

She can see his expression, and it makes her stomach clench uncomfortably. That mixture of shock and revulsion. (He's _repulsed _by the idea?)

"She's my sister, Sal. What the hell are you saying?"

("…_annoying _brother. "Step-brother." "Same difference.")

"Step-sister." Sally whispers, "It's not the same thing."

"She thinks it is."

Sally cleared her throat, "I think I've got my answer." She makes a move to go to her room.

His voice is pleading, "Sal, please…"

"You know what, Derek," Sally turns around (and all Casey wants to do is take her and hug her, and tell her she's _crazy_. Even if there's this _foolishdelusional_ part of her that hopes she isn't.) "That dress is mine. You've seen it a thousand times before."

And _then _she walks away, leaving him standing there, hands clenched uselessly at his side. The hurt so fervent it makes her eyes sting.

(He's hurting, and in all irony she's the one who wants to kneel down.)

* * *

_**a/n- **__Derek's practically psychic! __:) _


	6. Chapter 6

**_a/n- _**_I love playing around with Drunk!Casey and Sober!Derek. Casey's thoughts being confined to basic sentences, and being all over the place in the first half is deliberate._

_DISCLAIMER: Mike not mine. Which is almost sadder than the fact that LWD is also not mine._

* * *

(She'd never been good at faking. She could lie a little, but never when she actually _needed _to. She would scrunch up her face, and blush and stammer and she was so goddamned _obvious_. He used to look at her and laugh at her pathetic attempts to _try _and lie. But now she knows, there's something to be said about living with the 'Lord of The Lies' himself.

You learn from the best.)

* * *

He's picking up his stupid leather jacket.

(Here's the thing: She used to _like _leather jackets. They spelt danger and chivalry and James Dean. A glamorous world in which she could imagine she was one of those temptresses from the old movies, playing mind games –not being played-. But now…now they only spell De-_rek_.)

He turns around and she forgets she's supposed to be asleep (it's the alcohol, it slows down your thinking process and she wasn't thinking a lot to begin with. Just Trumanmirrorsdresses) and gasps.

He looks around immediately, and spots her open door. He's just standing there, and she wants him to come inside because what the _hell _happened to his face? He hesitates for a moment, and just when she thinks he's about to leave, he comes inside right beside her bed.

"You're awake?"

She doesn't answer, she reaches out and puts her hand on his face, watching him flinch automatically. "Your face. It's all dark and hurt and you're so stupid. What did you do?"

He smiles slightly, "Still drunk, I see. The Casey I know would've never used the word stupid. She'd have wanted to thoroughly confuse me with every single synonym the dictionary listed."

(The Casey he knows. Which Casey does he know? The old one whom he used to fight with –and occasionally for- or the new one whom he left for four months.)

"I'm not drunk. I'm…mad. Why are you hurt?"

His face darkens and for a moment she can't breathe (he's too close, he's cutting off her circulation. Stupid boy.) "Are you fucking insane?"

She pouts, since when does he get to talk like that to her? She's his st…sister and he should be nice. Except he's Derek and he isn't ever nice. "What?"

He leans in closer (_awaygetaway_) "Accepting a drink from a guy _you didn't know_. What the fuck is wrong with you? Did all those feelings you keep repressed finally explode and short circuit your brain or something?"

He's very angry. She's never seen him this angry, and certainly not for her. But she's fine, isn't she? She's not even hurt and he's hurt. Why's he hurt?

"Why are you hurt?"

He groans, "Forget that, and next time…you're delusional if you think there's going to be a next time. You have no idea what Paul's like."

"He's nice. He thinks I'm gorgeous."

He looks at her again. (Except not. Because he isn't looking _at _her and she's so drunk, even _that _makes perfect sense.)

"He has eyes, doesn't he?"

"But he was nice to me, he listened and…"

His hands clench in fists, "He was touching you, Case. How can you be fucking fine with _that_?"

She remembers Paul's hand drawing slow, lazy circles on her thigh, moving up every time. And she…did like it. It was different. It brought an odd feeling in the pit of her stomach. One that she liked. A sort of…fulfillment. A crazy beating of her heart, and just a strange anticipation. She's never felt it before.

"I liked it."

His body stills and he's openly glaring at her, "_What_?"

"I liked it." Her hand moves of its own accord, mimicking the slow wanderings of Paul's hands. And it's back, that strange feeling. She looks up, and Derek is staring at her. He obviously doesn't understand, so she tries to explain. "It feels like…like you've just got this book you've been dying to read. But there's this feeling you get _before _you've read the book. When you're holding it in your hands. It's almost better than the book itself. It feels like that."

It tickles a little, and it hurts in a way, but a _good _hurt. Her skin is very sensitive to touch; odd she never realized it before. (He's still staring at her and she's thinking of adding a clause in the McDonald-Venturi Rulebook forbidding him to ever stare at her like that. It makes her lose her train of thought.)

"Casey," he clears his throat. "Stop that."

"Stop what."

"Whatever you're doing."

"I'm showing you what Paul did. He made me feel good, so you shouldn't be angry."

He stills her hand with his, and for a moment she feels like she's been burned.

"I know it feels good." He's whispering, and she's glad because for some reason it feels like he understands. Even though he doesn't. He never did. "But you're not going to let any guy touch you like that, okay?"

(_"No eating strange berries, okay Smarti?"_)

"Okay, Smerek." She whispers obediently. Almost automatically.

("…_annoying _brother." "Step-brother." "Same difference.")

He recoils like she's hit him. (And aren't they breathing too loud? It hurts her head, their breathing.)

It draws attention to the discolored bruise on his cheek, and she gets up. Or tries to. (Which counts surely?)

In the end he's holding helping her up, muttering about stupid princesses who can't handle alcohol. She wants to tell him she can hear. (But that was the whole point probably.)

She comes back with an ice pack, wet and shivering.

"What the hell? Did you just shower or something?"

She flushes and decides not to mention that the ice just didn't want to stay in the pack and kept falling into the most unbelievable parts of her body (_andfuckitwascold._)

His eyes lighten, "You're sloshed and you tried to make an _icepack_."

(Stupid boy.)

She sits with him and gently puts it on his face. The only sound she can hear is the ticking of her (_goditsloud) _clock. (And wasn't Derek supposed to be in his dorm? Wasn't there the 'No boys after ten' rule? _"I'm the exception to all the rules."_)

She shivers slightly, and then catches his amused gaze.

"What's so hilarious?" She doesn't mean to snap but (he's right here and she's _still _thinking about him) he makes her so mad.

"Nothing." He smirks and she's so irritated, she slams the icepack on his face, harder than necessary and then winces.

"This," he points at her vaguely, "You do realize you're the one flinching, right?"

(And he's right. Because every time the cold makes contact with his bruised skin, and he sits stoically, she feels the pain. He doesn't wince and for _once _she'd like him to stop pretending to be superman and just _hurt_. Feel. Whatever. He doesn't always have to be the jerky, cool guy. She doesn't want to keep hurting for him. Ryan, anybody?)

"Yeah." And she shouldn't be angry, but she is, "Because to hurt you need feelings. So I'm trying to make up for you here."

This time he _does _flinch, "What the hell is that supposed to mean."

(She doesn't know.)

"You hurt Sally." It's the first thing she thinks of to blame him for (the first thing she _can _blame him for.)

(And she's drunk but she knows she just messed up royally. Because now he knows how long she's been awake for.)

"I didn't," he says quietly, "She was jumping to ridiculous conclusions. Every single thing she said was wrong, Casey. Every. Single. Thing."

(This time it brings out a different feeling. Something like falling down. Losing.)

* * *

"What did he mean?"

They're both lying on her bed at opposite ends, the odd, unnatural stiffness of her body probably overriding her pretence of being alseep.

She wants to say something sharp about his belief that she can read his mind, but her head hurts. A lot.

"Who?"

"Paul." He says briefly, still facing the wall. "About…not being there for you."

(She blames his voice. She's known it since months, but it's only hearing it from him that makes it real. Like always.)

She's not crying (she's not. She's not. She's not.)

The flashes of memory are so vivid, she feels all over again. The days she spent missing everybody so much it'd almost hurt (he hadn't been there.) The days she walked and tripped and nobody made fun of her (he wasn't there.) The days she studied through the night and there was nobody to taunt her about how she _really _needed her beauty sleep because otherwise she'd become a national eyesore (he wasn't there.) Days she spent in the stands, hiding under a stupid hat, because he'd never told her about any of his games (because –fun fact– he wasn't there.)

"I didn't desert you." His voice is rough.

"Oh." She says politely, because she can't fake hate but she can fake indifference, and that would have to do.

"Look at me."

She doesn't.

He turns her around himself, and his hands are harsh, punishing. Their silent truce is over. This is endgame.

"_God, _Casey. You were the one who said you never wanted to speak to me in college. Every single minute of every day, all I used to hear was 'De-_rek_ you're ruining my life.' 'De-_rek_, I hate you. 'De-_rek, _I wish we'd never met.'"

She wants to say he's got it all wrong. (He hasn't, but she wants to say something). Because he's right.

"So _this was it_, Casey. Your freedom from my constant presence. Somewhere nobody knew us, and you could pretend I didn't exist, like you so obviously wanted. I fucking did it for you. So you could be whoever you so desperately wanted to be without me. Pretend to your heart's content, without anyone calling you on it. It was _college_. A new beginning. You could be Casey McDonald. No slacker, jerk of a brother in the scenario."

("…_annoying _brother." "Step-brother." "Same difference.")

She tries to move away. Because she doesn't have an answer. And she hates him for doing this to her. For making her say that she'd missed him. For having _clear, logical _reasoning, while she was half delusional. But he's pinned her down in a nanosecond, his body heavy on hers. (And this is _wrongwrongwrong.)_

"No," his voice is grim and she's reminded of his fight with Sally. Sally who's probably cried herself to sleep in the other room. "You don't get to do this every single fucking time, okay? Call the shots and run. I thought you wanted me to stay away, I did. Didn't you?"

She tries to move again, but the sensations running through her make her stop immediately. His eyes have darkened to the deepest shade she's ever seen on him, and it makes her catch her breath sharply.

(She can't even fake indifference. Hold the applause.)

She's watching him with something akin to panic as he looks directly at her, "What's the matter, Case? Not so much fun on the other side? Where you actually have to deal with _consequences_ of your words instead of just running away."

He bends down, and whispers in her ear, and she's shuddering without even realizing it, "Did you _want_ me to stay?"

"No." It's drawn out from her in a strangled sob. "No. I didn't. I hate having you around."

"Yeah," he says, and his voice is back to normal, the tense line of his body the only give-away. "It would've been even less fun to have _you _around."

He gets off her, and she's just too cold. Moving towards her door, he turns with his hand on her knob. "I stayed away, Case. But you know what?"

(What?)

"You didn't call me back."

Then he's gone, and she's left staring at the ceiling, her dress crushed beyond recognition.

(Just like her morals.)

* * *

**_a/n- _**_Directly from the show, because we all know whenever they fight, he just LOVES pinning her down...'The Party', remote fights, etc. (talk about restraint! Or a lack thereof)_


	7. Chapter 7

_1. Nope. Not dead. Halfway there, though, since I slept at 7:30 (AM) and woke up at half past ten so sorry if this sucks. _

_2. Read_ **_'Clinically Insane' by Phoenix Satori._**_ It's brilliant and it's a companion fic to 'What You Call Winter'! She's kind of too awesome to actually live. Also a very happy b'day to Liz! :)_

**_disclaimer:_**_ Not mine. Also the last line is from an awesome HP fic called 'Water'!_

* * *

(She'd always wanted an older brother. Somebody who'd make fun of her, but who'd be there _every single time_ she needed him. Somebody who'd look out for her and buy her ridiculously useless trinkets. Somebody who would tease her about her crushes and yet discreetly try to set her up with his best friend. Somebody who'd really _care _about her and protect her and be all…like a _brother_.

She got…well…him.)

* * *

The entire hockey team seems to have made her head their personal net. (Hangovers? Way underrated.)

And it's odd that she thinks in terms of hockey. Because she hates it (and all its stupidmoronic worshippers). She always used touch-downs and kick-offs for metaphors (once she'd gotten over her initial fling-flong stage. Yeah, she'd still like to give him the opening groin-kick for that one) because Lizzie had always loved football, and then there'd been Max.

(When did that change?)

She turns over and catches a glimpse of a white tablet lying on her dresser with a glass of water.

_Sally._

And strangely enough she realizes her stomach's clenching and she's feeling guilty as hell. Without even a worthy sin to justify it.

(But nothing _happened_. And nothing _could _have happened. Because…and she doesn't even know what she's talking about.)

* * *

"Feeling better?"

(No, not really. She's thinking of commissioning someone for a time machine to make yesterday _un-happen _actually).

"Yeah."

Lyra looks up at her, her mouth drawn into a silent Cheshire Cat grin, "I always knew even with all your morning-hair, keener tendencies and periodic bouts of insanity, you really _couldn't_ be as lame as you seemed."

"Umm…thanks?" (Because yes, it _is _a compliment. Sort of).

Lyra scoots closer to the edge of the sofa, "So you _have _to tell me your secret. It's that whole super-geek thing you've got going on, isn't it? That gets the guys? I bet they're all imagining you in a tight shirt with dorky glasses and a bun. The whole striptease fantasy, you know. And…"

Nonono, she doesn't remember it at all. Because it's not even related to…_anything_. And she should really just go back to sleep (and preferably never wake up.)

Because she'd lost a bet to him in her senior year (She's slowly starting to realize she's a really good loser. Probably even the best. She's got it down to a fine art) and he'd taken full advantage. He'd made her bring him food for a week, and do his chores, and even picked out her 'maid-outfit' for her. (Except somewhere in between he'd messed up and picked _Lizzie's_ work-shirt up from the laundry). And then made her wear it anyway because making her uncomfortable was his life's primary aim. And the glasses actually had lenses in them, and he made her wear them because it gave him extreme pleasure to watch her falling about. The bun had been another Casey-doesn't-like-it-so-she-_has-_to-do-it kind of thing. So she'd stumbled around for a week and then written his mobile number on the school bathroom wall. Hah.

(Although she doesn't know why she's thinking of that, because it's…_striptease?..._not related at all. And anyway, she's 'asexual' apparently and "_…annoying brother" "_Step-_brother" "Same difference"_…)

"…and then the pink elephant killed off the hooker. Thank you for listening."

She looks at Lyra guiltily. "Sorry."

"Are you all right?"

She looks up to see Sally.

(And this isn't awkward at _all. _Really.)

"Yeah, I'm fine." She says again (and she wants to say _something_ else except she doesn't know what) and catches Sally's unreadable glance.

"You're still wearing my dress," she says casually.

She looks down and yes, she is. It's all creased and it's going to take hours of labor to get it back to its original state. (And it's going to take years of therapy to- _Did you _want _me to stay._)

"Sorry, I'll just…I'll get it." She rushes to the door, to answer the persistent ringing.

He's there.

She's looking right at him and he's looking…over her shoulder.

He almost pushes her aside, except it's not a shove. It's almost…as if he doesn't even _know _she's there. As if she hadn't really registered on his radar.

(This wasn't what usually happened. They weren't people who could fake indifference as much as they tried, their non-relationship was too...much for that. Because as much as they fought and screwed each other up, they also always couldn't stay away. And she hates change of any kind, which is the _only _reason why she's finding it difficult to breathe.)

"Derek," Sally acknowledges, her voice dull.

He moves towards her single-mindedly, every muscle in his body stretched to breaking point, his hands clenched at his sides and suddenly his mouth is on Sally's, hard (and that hangover must really be still affecting her because she wants to throw up).

"Wow," Lyra says (she still exists?) her eyes wide "I think I'm going to have to turn away, even though I'm all for PDA, just so I don't slip up and 'accidentally' knife Sally in her bed. She must've been Gandhi in her previous lifetime to warranty this. I thought this kind of intensity was a myth originating from the world of sparkling vampires."

She wants to turn away too. In fact she should just go before she lines the floor with the contents of her stomach (she's going to send a complaint letter to Tylenol manufacturers, because it doesn't help _at all_) but she _can't _because…just _because_.

(Derek hates PDA. Except apparently not when it's with Sally. Because he l…ikes her.)

And then he's pulled her into the room and slammed the door shut.

(And she's left right _there _with _dressesmirrorsandyesterday_).

* * *

"So...how's college. Meet any cute guys lately?"

She knows Emily's saying something, but she can't hear much over the roaring in her own head which is just too loud and makes her want to bang her body against the wall so the physical pain could replace that queer strangled feeling in her throat.

(Who likes to see their step-brother indulging in excessive displays of intimacy? Really, it's enough to make anyone sick.)

Emily pauses on the phone, "Too soon after him…?"

"What? No, no way. I'm just…repulsed. He shouldn't just walk in and start doing…that. Because it's disgusting even though it's not wrong for them because they're not…whatever."

"Umm…Casey, earth speak. Truman just walked in? How?"

(What?)

"Not Truman, _him_."

There's silence on the phone for a couple of seconds, and then "Oh, Derek," Emily says flatly. "He's around a lot, I'm sure. Like always"

"Yeah, for…Sally. And he just walked in and started kissing and you guys have been broken up only since five months. Doesn't he have _any _decency and decorum about maintaining the period of mourning? He's so…"

"Casey," she interrupts her voice gentle, almost as if she's reading too much into it, "We just…_broke up. _He isn't my widower, you know."

"But he hates PDA." (And that's what gets her the most. He's probably made out with more girls than she can count but his rules were rigid and he'd simply never cared enough to actually break any of them.) She does something which might even pass for laughing in some universe "I've never seen him like this, Em. So…wrapped up in someone, he never even notices anybody else any longer. It's only Sally. All these girls here are flirting with him and he flirts back but it's automatic. Who'd have thought _Derek Venturi_ would ever be so absorbed by a _girl_. He wasn't ever like this before."

There's silence again and then Emily chirps in, her voice overly (fake) bright, "Oh, sorry Casey, roomie's calling for breakfast. I really have to go. I'll call you as soon as I can, 'kay? So sharpen your describing skills because I'm going to need a description of every single guy you've met till now for my file. And…"

"Yeah?"

(They must be running up a gigantic phone bill with all these strange silences) "Derek's always been like that, Casey. The only difference is that that girl used to be you."

* * *

Sally's glowing. Honest-to-god _glowing._

She's also humming as she sets the breakfast plates and she reallyreally wants to snap that it's way too early for this. And then Sally's hugging her. (And cue Twilight Zone music _again_. The theme song of her life.)

"I'm sorry." (What is _she _sorry for?)

"I just…I don't know, Casey, I just lost my mind. I put two and two together and made a fucking _forty-four_. I'm was just…so stupid. I was making up these impossible, twisted scenarios in my head…and you don't even know what I'm talking about but…sorry."

(Except for the part where she _does _know what she's talking about. And impossible scenarios just about sums it up.)

"Can I tell you something?" and it's just the tone that gets her, because Sally is _never _hesitant. She's confident as all hell.

"Sure."

"I'm thinking of, you know, going all the way with him. It's just becoming so much…harder to stop and I think I don't _want _to stop. We'd discussed this, and he's, well…Derek, so he's obviously done it, but he was willing to wait. And _God, _Casey, you have no idea how difficult it is because I want _all _of him now."

(Tylenol causes causes three times as many cases of liver failure as all other drugs combined. And she's experiencing it first-hand. She's soon going to be a statistic. Or maybe it was lung failure, because, _hell, _she can't _breathe_.)

"I wouldn't suggest that" and she even _sounds _like she's going to die of lung (or is it liver?) failure, "If…if you want to pass your next blood test."

Sally laughs, "I think I'll risk it. And Casey, I know this is highly odd, but you _have _to come lingerie shopping with me, you know what he likes better than anyone else. And I want to look _good. _Because…" she hesitates again, "He's always in control. It's like sometimes it's too…_easy _for him to stop, while I'm just…begging for more."

"He likes making people beg." (She didn't mean to say that. But she has too many memories of kneeling before him, and yes, she knows _exactly _what it feels like. Like wrong dipped in dark chocolate.)

(It tastes a little like heaven's polluted.)

* * *

_1. Emily wasn't really speaking in a romantic sense (although I think she's guessed) but generally how, when Casey was there he'd just give up all his time and even go out on dates just to annoy her. He was always totally consumed by her._

_2. I think I might feel sorry for Sally a little, since she's obviously trying to hold on to something which she probably knows isn't working. It's kind of what happens a lot, actually, when people prefer to turn a blind eye instead of actually taking a stand. And...I do think she likes Derek a lot._

_3. The fantasy, totally canon (Venturian Candidate). How awesome is this show again?_


	8. Chapter 8

_1. I just couldn't resist. This was actually supposed to be a Lyra/Sally/Casey chapter and then turned into...this. Oh well, I'm sure no one really minds a little Dasey (or a lot of Dasey) love/angst. (Although it IS extending the story a lot, unfortunately!)_

_2. I think I've said it before, but YOU GUYS ROCK! Cheers to the best reviewers on the planet. Thank you SO much! You have no idea how much I use all that you say! (And I'm glad you like Lyra even though she's not really fleshed out). _

_DISCLAIMER: Between the last chapter and this one my manager has once again proved his supreme inefficiency._

* * *

(She doesn't have epiphanies. She's never yet stood in front of a fountain, miraculously come to life, and _realized…_anything. She's never rushed to catch a plane and been stopped in the middle by the love of her life in a tuxedo. She's never even had the chance to quote Eric Segal. All _she's _ever done is wear blue eye-shadow to family dinners and…

…Oh. Fuck.)

* * *

They're all sitting in the living room (and she really doesn't know when he became their "fourth" room-mate to replace Sayna who seems to have permanently shifted in with her boyfriend).

She comes in, banging the door behind her. "I'm a good person. No, _really._"

"What happened?" asks Sally.

"His mouth came with a built in amplifier. I had to sit and listen, in a _coffee-house_, while he told me in detail how he _knows _that the female body needs more stimulation that the male body and all the various ways he's found of pleasuring girls. He even gave me numbers of 'satisfied users' and told me I could contact them in case I wanted to confirm his claim."

"Really?" She doesn't even realize she's spoken till she feels his amused eyes burning holes in the side of her head.

Lyra looks at her in surprise. "Obviously not. Why'd I be here otherwise? I'd be testing his claim. All _he _talked about was how somebody called Ham wrote the plays of Shakespeare. I kid you not." Her laughter definitely has a manic tinge to it.

Sally takes her to the kitchen (possibly to administer the post-traumatic-occasion-brandy).

"Bacon," she corrects automatically, to no one in particular, because she's still Derek- Venturi's- Keener-S…ister inside.

"Casey, Casey, Casey," he's shaking his head, and the familiar tone (how _dare _he) makes her heart lodge somewhere in the vicinity of her intestines (because he's not allowed to _do _this anymore. Say her name like that. It's not fair). "You can't discuss sex but you know that somebody called _Bacon _wrote the plays of whatzipere? Why did they send you here from planet Dork-ette anyway?"

"I do too know about sex." She says indignantly (because he…he's failed first grade…and he isn't allowed to be better than her in _anything_).

He raises one eyebrow in that infuriating way of his and then turns back to the TV, a half smile playing across his lips, "Suuure…"

She had a momentary insane desire to quote her biology books, or paragraphs from her paper-covered romance novels (that had always made her face flush) to show that "she does too know about sex",but she _can't._ (Because he…her college bathroom wall…and it conjures up imagery of him that still makes her want to…. And anyway, he and Sally…).

So she does the next best thing she can think of.

He's out of his chair in an instant (he's shifted _His Chair _to _their_ apartment. She doesn't overanalyze at all. Really), "Give. That. Back."

She looks straight at him, in familiar ground, "Make me."

Then they're fighting over the remote like they've done so many times before, and _god _it's… normal. The what-used-to-be's and should-still-be because this is healthy…sibling behavior. Fighting, and playing around and…safe. The kind that comes after "_…Annoying _brother." "_Step_-brother." "Same difference." Because same difference means that the step status is no longer applicable and…

(…And then he's pinned her down on the couch and she can't think anymore).

_ _

She should surrender the remote.

She's not sure it's worth having her heart stuck somewhere in middle of her throat; cutting off both her air supply and blood circulation (_why is he looking at her like that_) and what with the baby (fuck; _their_ sibling) she doesn't want to worry her parents with hospital bills. Because she's always been the model daughter. (The one with the _morals _and _values…_she is…was).

(But then that would mean that he's _won _and she _won't _let him win. Ever).

He leans in closer and (they're close enough, Derek, get _away_)_, _"I think you have something of mine."

"And I think you're stretching your ownership a little too much."

He looks down at her, "Not at all, Casey. What's yours is automatically mine. I'm your big _brother_, remember? Siblings _share_."

"So won't you let your little _sister _have the remote?" she's biting it out without even a clear reason why.

His face breaks into a smirk (except his eyes are dark, oh god, so dark) "You want the remote. You can have it."

She can't hide her surprise. (The catch…?)

"…Say _please...sis_."

She tries to turn her head away (doesn't work).

"It's quite easy", he takes his free hand and slides it across her bare leg. Burning his _please _into her skin. Till all her nerves are concentrated under his fingers, one letter at a time. P. L. E…

"Derek, _don't._"

"Don't…what?" (He doesn't stop. He's on the 'a' and it's…too much).

She can vaguely hear the ringing and it takes time for her to recognize that it isn't entirely in her head. (Because his eyes have flecks of almost black and he's _looking _at her and _touching_. It… isn't allowed).

But she holds on to the remote (because it's just a remote, not like it's…symbolic or anything) and picks up the phone with the other hand.

"Casey…?"

She takes a moment to place the voice, "Paul?"

His grip on her legs tightens and she involuntarily clutches the back of his shirt. His mouth sets in a grim line and he bends down further, his breath warm on the side of her neck (oh, _god_, no).

She realizes she's just missed whatever Paul had been saying… "Sorry, I didn't quite catch that."

Derek smirks (and she's one _step _away from punching him…but she can't because her hand is caught between their bodies and belatedly she realizes the remote has fallen).

"I was asking whether you're free tomorrow."

"No," he's whispering against her neck (and _goddamn you, _she _feels _it).

Stalemate. She looks right back at him (and she doesn't know why it feels so much like a challenge).

"Yes," she says defiantly, and regrets it immediately because this isn't what it's supposed to be. She's not supposed to be making dates just because it feels like somehow she's winning.

Paul's saying something but the phone's already been taken from her and switched-off.

"You're not going out with him."

(And it's almost like an echo) "Like my dating your friend is so threatening to you."

"You're busy tomorrow."

(Really? Busy doing what. Buying lingerie for _his _girlfriend?)

She's stopped struggling (because really; what's the use?) and as if noting the fact, he gets off her. She brushes herself off and tries to move away (somewhere - _anywhere_ - else).

"I have a game tomorrow."

She looks back. He's sitting on his couch, completely unaffected, hand behind his head. "You're busy. With me." He continues watching.

(Except the TV's playing 'A Walk to Remember').

"I thought I was a bad luck charm."

"You are," he says, not missing a beat, "But you'll have to do, _sis. _Since the rest of _our _family isn't here."

"Well, then you'll just have to manage without us, _bro. _Because _I_ have a date."

(Maybe she's just not used to the taste of victory. It can't possibly always taste this bitter.)

_ _

"Why are you always so difficult." He bites out.

(And he's in her room. The one which she just locked).

He holds out a pin in answer to her unspoken question.

"De-_rek_. I could have been doing…something."

She only realizes the innuendo when he grins and _then _she flushes (because the scholarship's a joke. She's obviously the village idiot).

He takes in the clothes lying around her. "What are you doing?"

"Choosing clothes. For my _date_. With Paul."

He scratches the back of his head in pretend confusion, "You mean that date you never really made?"

"What?" she's glaring at him (and _this _is normal).

"You just cut the phone on him, Case. You could've let him down gently. Guys don't take rejection very well. Especially guy like Paul."

She's (nearly) speechless with anger (because he's _right_, he'd cut the phone _before _the date was made).

"And anyway," he says and he's not looking at her now, "You would have had to break it for the game. I just saved you the trouble."

"You're crazy," she manages through clenched teeth, "if you think I'm going to come to your stupid hockey game after _this_. You didn't need me before, so don't try to pretend like I'm suddenly important."

(And she's said it again. Mentioned his absence. Ordinarily people lived and learned. She just lived).

"Didn't need you before," he repeats. "What the hell?"

"The other games." (Her brain doesn't seem to have gotten the "_Shut Up" _memo) "You…you didn't tell me when…they were. You played…fine without me…so…_God, _stop pretending that…that you _want_ me there or something, okay, Derek. Just…stop."

He holds her arms, "You know why I never told you?"

(She doesn't care. Not. One. Bit.)

"Because you were already _there_. Did you think I wouldn't recognize you because you were wearing a stupid, floppy hat that hid your face? I know you better than you think, princess. I recognize the way you walk. The way you sit. I know _you, _Casey."

She stares at him, shocked. (Because… he'd _known_?)

He looks at her open cupboard grimly, "You probably kept the hat in the middle drawer in the beginning, so it wouldn't get crushed. And then you'd have seen it every day and felt like you'd given it too much _importance. _After all it was just a stupid hat you wore to your s…brothers' stupid games. Then you'd have kept it in the top of the cupboard. But that would make it seem like it was a _secret _or something. Something you were ashamed of. So you'd have kept it wrapped in paper and kept it in the bottom drawer."

(And he doesn't even open the lowest drawer to pick up the hat lying there. Because he doesn't need to).

"…Then you just didn't come that one day. And I got into my first fight. You know _why, _princess? Because there was no one I'd have to answer to. Nobody who'd have completely freaked out and threatened to call everyone from dad to the Anti-Terrorism Squad."

(She remembers. She'd had an assignment due the next week and she'd heard about him getting hurt from one of his fan club. He'd gotten _hurt_).

"So," she swallows locking eyes with him, "you want me to come because you can't afford fights if you want to keep the scholarship?"

(Because that's _safe_. And he'd known. And…whatever).

"Yeah."

"…Sis", he adds without any particular reason.

She looks down at her phone. She can just call Paul herself and…

…and once again she's blowing off someone else for _him_. She's getting used to the feeling.

It's only when he's gone does she remember she still has to go shopping…_lingerie _shopping…for the girl he loves. It's not important, but it does make something catch a little in her chest and makes her want to throw up.

(Maybe she should Google '_family_'and '_brother_' because she obviously doesn't know the meaning of either).

* * *

_1. Yay! Blue-eyeshadow love. :) Also, years of living with Casey seems to have made Derek a resident expert on over-analyzing. Particularly _Casey _over-analyzing. Oh well, hope you enjoyed it. I just love that because of their frequent _remote _fights (who do they think they're kidding, again?) this could maybe happen. _

_2. Derek-as-a-tease is kind of hot. Or is it just me?_


	9. Chapter 9

_A/N : Really strange chapter. I think I was in a super-melancholy mood or something and...this came out. Thank you SO much for all the wonderful reviews. I mean, WOW, you guys rock hard! (And I can't remember whether I've replied to them or not, hope I have! Stupid new ff "messaging" system makes me forget every time. Earlier you couldn't reply again, if you'd already replied. Now you can't tell)._

_I hope you like it (even if it's really weird). :)_

* * *

When they first met, they filled all the stereotypes. He was the popular, ultra-cool guy with girls and hockey. And she was the keener with braces and dorky dresses. They were like...toothpaste and orange juice. He was wild and she thought everything out. He had a thousand girlfriends and she actually _tripped _when she liked a guy. He slacked through life and she hated it when she got a ninety-six.

(And he played dress-up with his sister and she lied to get time for her science project. They worked together and fought together and when she thought he was moving to Spain for six months, she cried. And they really never were that well defined anyway.)

* * *

Her blush hormones seem to have gone way into overdrive.

She's not even sure why she agreed to something as stupid as this. ("_You're the only one who knows what he likes."_)

Oh right.

(That's not even true. What she _does _know is all that he _dislikes_. And that too only because she's used that information against him. Just because he knew she'd been going to his hockey games didn't reflect on how well they knew/didn't know each other. It just proved that being a detective was definitely _not _her calling).

Lyra seems to find it hysterical that she can't keep her gaze on one…thing long enough, without having to look away.

"It's just underwear," she says, in a matter-of-fact tone that makes Casey aware of how usual this is for her.

(Just underwear. Right. With nets. And leather. And lace. And satin. But just underwear.)

The only reason she notices him is because he looks just as out-of-place as she does. He's standing awkwardly behind a rack obviously wishing himself anywhere but in the boutique. And in a strange way his eager-to-please expression reminds her of Tinker.

(Strangely enough, Tinker might have been the only guy who'd ever liked her just as she was. She's not sure what her constant rejection of him says about her).

"Hey."

He looks at her in surprise, "Umm…hi."

"So…planning on surprising your girlfriend?"

(…And the Academy Award for the most awkward dialogue goes to…)

He flushes and belatedly she realizes he's about twelve. "No. I…I'm here for my sister."

"Wow. Isn't that a job left for mothers usually?" She smiles at him.

He smiles back, "My mother passed away six years ago and Marina refuses to go with anyone else. But this _is_ really awkward."

She looks at him, "I'm sorry."

"It's been a long time, but since she's growing up it's harder. Dad doesn't exactly understand," he leans in closer, "I've to go out and buy…sanitary…stuff for her. And I always get this feeling that everyone's looking funny at me, you know."

She's laughing suddenly, "Once my step-sister sat on her box of red paint and went around with red splashed all over her skirt. My step-brother assumed the worse, even though she was _eight_, and he kept dropping cryptic hints to me and my mother. We didn't get it, and in the end he went and brought ten different packs because he couldn't decide between colors and scented/unscented. The way back he met up with a group of girls from school and in his hurry to hide the packet he tripped…"

The boy leans in further, interested, "And then…? Did they laugh at him?"

She grins (actually _grins_), "Laugh at _him_? You don't know Derek Venturi. Within ten minutes he'd made three dates for the next week because he was such a _caring_, _sensitive_ guy."

"He sounds like a nice person."

Casey smiles down at the ten-year-old girl who seems to have materialized out of thin air, "He really isn't."

"But if he wasn't," the girl says seriously, as if debating theories of quantum physics, "then he wouldn't have gone through so much trouble for his sister. If he's one of the cool people, then to do that he must love her very much."

(And strangely enough the memory flashing through her mind isn't of the day that they still hold against Derek. It's of a totally different day and they're both in the kitchen and she's crying and he's telling her to "_take your own advice_").

"Sometimes," she says (and maybe she's been wrong all along. Maybe it's always been concern. For a sister. "…_annoying brother_." "Step-_brother_". "_Same difference_."), "Sometimes he has his moments."

Long after they've waved good-bye, she stands there, her head filled with break-ups and dances and stupid, ridiculous hula-hoops.

* * *

"Green." She says decisively.

Sally turns around, "Are you sure? Because I prefer the blue one."

She doesn't know why/how, but she _knows, _he'd like the green one. For a moment she imagines his expression and the strange tightening in her gut has nothing to do with sisterly…anything.

"He'd like the green one."

(And it's ridiculous that Sally trusts _her _judgment over her own).

"You guys are so much like my brother and me," says Lyra from her position on one of the chairs.

She feels a strong flash of irritation because…because Lyra…siblings…because Lyra's grammar is (not really) incorrect.

"My brother and I," she says, unnecessarily. (And technically it's not even right, but that's beside the point. The whole sentence is _totally and utterly _wrong).

Lyra glares at her, "Whatev. Keener. I meant that we fight just like you do and he has that whole stupid over-protective thing going on, which isn't half irritating. You're lucky your parents got married when you were young. You're just as comfortable around each other as if you were real siblings."

"They…didn't," and this is surreal, "I was fifteen when they got married."

"Yeah, right", and Lyra's actually _rolling _her eyes, "You'd be having those constant fights and he'd be coming into your room without knocking if you met when you were _fifteen_. You probably wouldn't even _talk _to each other if you'd met at the time your hormones were in overdrive, forget being so…comfortable. Then he wouldn't have cared who you go out with and you wouldn't go to his hockey games. Unless you were like best friends or lo…" she stops, "…something. Which you're not. You can't even stand each other."

(Maybe's it's her expression that gives her away, because Lyra's looking at her with a strange mixture of surprise and understanding, and _no…it's not like that…it's just…_).

She's saved by the opening of the dressing room (And there is no answer for anyway. It's not questioned. It's always been like this), and Sally's, "Can you guys come here a sec."

Sally's face is flushed with a sort-of suppressed excitement. Her stand is half shy, half defiant, the green satin material bringing out her eyes. Her hair is spread like a golden halo against her shoulder. They both stare at each other for a second. Then suddenly Sally smiles.

"What?"

"You're beautiful."

(And it's with a strange pang that she realizes she's never been more truthful in her life).

* * *

She's sitting on _his _couch, her feet propped up on the table, staring blankly at the television where Julia Roberts is telling Hugh Grant that she's just a girl. Standing in front of a boy. Asking him to love her. And they'll live 'Happily Ever After'.

(And he's…in there…with her. And they…they're probably…)

She doesn't even notice it when the remote slips from her hand

_ _

It's happened so many times that she can't recall whether it's a dream or a memory.

He's there and she's there and they're not…doing anything. He's telling her about Ryan and when he was twelve. And his voice is loud and clear and he's making a mockery out of it (because he's _Derek _fucking _Venturi_. It's what he does) but she's looking _at _him (and _through_ him) and she _knows _(because she knows _him_). She knows because he's clenching his hands into fists and his eyes are too wide. She knows because his voice is too clear. He's scared as hell. And he's likes to pretend so much, but he's not superman. And, hey look, he's not invincible. Derek Venturi bruises like an _ordinary _person. She never remembers what they talk about. Sitting on the dirty steps of her old school, he talks and she listens. But she can't ever recall his words. But his eyes, they're always clear in her mind.

There's only one thing she remembers. It's her he comes to. In her dreams (memories) it's always her. Always.

Or sometimes he's been dumped (he's not the player he wants everyone to think he is. He never has been). And he makes loud, crude remarks about women, but she can always tell when his eyes are too bright and his face stretched too taut. (She wonders whether that girl who just dumped him could tell). And then she's in his room, and maybe it's his expression and he's disillusioned (because honestly, he lives in a fairyland just as much as she does. One where he never gets hurt and always gets what he wants).

And maybe it's because he's _Derek_, no girl is supposed to mean so much to him. But she's crying and screaming at him for no reason. And for once he's not making excuses about the places he has to be, he doesn't leave.

(That's the only thing she remembers really; he doesn't run away. She cries, and he stays).

And she wakes up, aching, reaching out for (nothing. There's nothing there) _something_. And it takes her a moment to realize that it's his sweatshirt on the couch. And then she's wearing it. Maybe it's wrong (right) but at least it's something. (And he's still in the room with her. And it's _hurting_).

She can't tell you whether they're dreams or memories. She's not sure herself. But it's then that she understands:

It isn't that she imagines he needs her. He doesn't. It's just that she's beginning to realize there are times (a lot of times) when she'd like him to.

* * *

_Dasey action next chapter (can't resist those crazy kids!) And Lyra's statement corresponds with my "Step-siblings are NOT siblings theory". Which I'm going to post on my Livejournal. So check back for the link in a few days if you're interested! Or maybe in the next chapter :)_


	10. Chapter 10

_a/n : Dasey all the way. And updated fast. I'm so happy :) Rating is a little higher for language. Also, this is my LONGEST chapter till date of any chapter fic, because I just added every cliche I could think of!_

What it should be titled:_ In Which The Author Gives Up All Pretences of Ever Having Had A Plot And Lets The All Round Dasey Snark/Love Fest Commence_

**_Disclaimer: It's a disclaimer._**

* * *

(It had always been an… _abstractedly_ real concept- Derek and sex. It was one of those hazy undercurrents of his life that she had never- would never – explored. Sometimes she would catch an unmistakable glace directed at one of his girls-of-the-day-and/or-week and realize just how…_potent _that look was. And strangely enough, she'd be the one blushing.

But it had never _seemed_ real - that aspect of his existence. Reality was their fights and relentless insults which formed the fabric of their daily life. Reality was fighting with him and _not _noticing that his hair was a little red in the sunlight. Those other girls had never been important enough to penetrate in her consciousness.

But now he and that girl, who _is _important enough, are in the room together and it's real. So goddamn real.)

* * *

She wakes up on the couch, drenched in sweat and uncomfortably hot. The persistent, harsh pounding in her chest (and the mind-numbing guilt) is the only recollection of her dream.

(Which _hadn't _involved reddish-brown hair and green satin and a voice that usually made her want to kick something hard. There was no _way _she'd just…dreamt…that…him…her…just, no way.)

And she realizes with a sort of dispassionate interest that she's shaking. Hard. And that the only thing she can remember is that she still has to complete her English project (or that his eye-lashes are too long for a guy's. It's hard to tell which, they're so much the same).

The thing is; dreams don't actually prove anything (she'd even dreamt about kissing Truman and look how that'd turned out) because it isn't like she can control them. And that particular dream might have been about a traumatizing thought. An extension of (his writing _please _on her bare skin) buying lingerie for Sally or ("_Did you _want _me to stay?"_) his sweatshirt that she was (still, inexplicably) wearing.

Or maybe it's the fact that she's (stupidly) decorated Sally's room with roses and actually brought champagne and chocolate-covered strawberries.( Because over the sound of Lyra laughing, there was the far more subtle, softer sound of a little piece of that guilt, firmly lodged in her chest, melting away.

And it had felt good.)

She needs a shower (she's heard it doesn't wash sins away- Lady Macbeth- but you don't know till you try, right?)

* * *

It's a cold shower and she finds it (wryly) ironic that he's reduced her to taking cold showers at three in the night (morning). She's never read that in any of her books, it's always been the guy in her position. (Conventionality is way overrated anyway).

And when she comes out, it's almost with a sardonic acceptance she notices him sitting on the couch, the television playing. (Maybe she's still dreaming. This counts as a nightmare, surely).

He looks up for a second at her sudden arrival and then goes back to his contemplation of the (epic) design of the flooring, "Your craziness extends into the night? I thought Little Miss Sunshine's like you never survived past eight o'clock."

She bites back a retort and says with quiet (bruised) dignity, "I don't need to always provide an antidote to your poison. So I'm not going to say anything."

His mouth twists into a poor imitation of a smile, "You got nothing."

She moves closer (because her stupid feet are obviously not connected to her brain and can't seem to process the "_stay away_" signal that it's -so loudly- transmitting). "You're the one with the beautiful girlfriend waiting for you in her room and _I'm _insane?"

"Jealous?" (And it's the _way _he says it, a sort of half-joking way. Which obviously means he's half-serious. His left eyebrow raised in silent mockery. And he's –still freaking- not looking up).

"Of you?" she scoffs (because what else could he have meant anyway), "Despite having lived with a total moron in my formative years_, _I'm still- very, very surprisingly- straight. Although do keep up with being… you, it's sure to put me off boys eventually."

He (almost) laughs before the order of the world reasserts itself and he very obviously realizes that he's laughing _with _her and not _at _her, and he immediately stops and gets up.

"What you mean is that the frustration is enough to turn you into a nymphomaniac."

"Like it's turned you into one?" she retorts (and this feels _good_, like it's supposed to be and never is).

He puts a hand to his (bare, _fuck, he's not wearing a shirt_. _How dare he_) chest, moving forward. "I'm touched you have so much faith in my abilities."

"Not at all," and she's moving back and his eyes are narrowing and he's realized (no, just…please…not again. Not this time), "Just a dubious faith in your low tastes."

"Why did you do that?" He's asking quietly (and he's still moving forward. Moron).

"Do what?" she's snapping (but he always does this. Always makes her lose and she hateshates him).

"Move back," (why the hell can't he raise his voice, so she can start breathing again? Isn't this illegal?) "Since when have you been intimidated by me?"

"Why don't you go wear a shirt? I refuse to talk to you like this." And it says much for her state of mind that she doesn't even call him on his use of the word 'intimidated'. (She's not… he's just…not wearing a shirt…and it's…degrading. Because if he stops wearing a shirt around the house, she's going to start objectifying men and that would make her a…female Derek. Right).

He looks down at himself, surprised, as if that had been the last thing on his mind. And as her words register, his eyes flash back to hers and she clutches the handle of the bathroom door at the second of fierce joy in his gaze (She's imagining it).

"Do I make you… uncomfortable?" (She's heard the tone before, but it's never been directed at her).

"No." she says, defiantly, almost challengingly.

He takes another step forward, his eyes fixed on the slowing rise and fall of her chest. "No?"

"Not at all."

And then she's trapped between the door and him (and she'd have been laughing at this in the movie because it's so stupidly cliché and it never actually happens in real life. Maybe her life follows his script), "What's the matter, Case? Siblings see each other fully naked all the time. It doesn't affect them."

("_Derek, _you _are the most _annoying _brother…" "_Step-_brother." "Same difference."_)

She raises her face to his (and he always gets too damn close, what the hell is he trying to prove?) "Sally's waiting for you inside."

The half-mocking smile slides right off his face, "God, those roses were overpowering. I couldn't stay inside a minute longer."

She feels the indignation of an artist whose work is criticized by morons unable to appreciate its true worth. "I took three hours on them."

He stills completely, dropping his hand, "_You_ did that?"

"Yes." (Why does he look like that? Please stop him. It isn't fair).

His eyes light up with understanding, "And the champagne and the strawberries," his mouth sets in a grim line, "You created _your _fantasy for us?"

(It wasn't…it's not…like that) "It's every girl's fantasy. I was just trying to help."

"Sure" and his expression is inscrutable, "When the guy is allergic to strawberries…"

"…and gets drunk on champagne." She finishes, on the verge of a mini-panic attack (how could she have _forgotten_).

His expression turns sullen and it looks like he's (not succeeding in) stopping himself from pouting with difficulty, "I do _not _get drunk on champagne."

She snorts, "Please, Derek. Might I remind you…"

"No." he interrupts, hastily, "You might not."

"What did you do," she interprets his confused stare, "You know, to keep up the pretence that you can hold a drink."

He glares at her, "Firstly, I do _not_ get drunk. And if…this was an alternate universe then…I told her it would taste so much better if I…licked it off her."

She can't help it, she laughs. "Smooth. A classic Venturi. Just like that time you told Sandy in my Psychology class that there was a water shortage and so the students had been asked to save water and got her to shower with you."

"Hey, she was _always_ in a towel whenever I went to her dorm. Like she had a radar or something. I just took heed of all your lessons on gentleman behavior and gave my lady what she wanted"

She snorts again (because Derek and 'gentleman' are listed in the Theasaurus as antonyms. Now Derek and _manwhore_...has possibilities). "Or the time when you told Hailey that she would never officially be considered out of virginhood unless she'd had sex with a porn video playing in the background."

He looks at her for a nanosecond like he's about to say something and then turns away, "Yeah. Standard line."

(Except Hailey had been a social outcast. A misfit among the girls of her college who looked like catalogue Victoria's Secret models with every strand of hair set right, every pout practiced. She'd come on scholarship to the university, wearing over-alls, her hair having never seen conditioner and glasses to complete the movie farm girl-look. And overnight she'd changed into a Derek Venturi girl and now she was on the debating society, her self-confidence not restricted to the glasses or the overalls she -still- wore.

"_It's easy for girls," _he'd said when she'd forced him to watch 'When Harry Met Sally', "_The guy can't even pretend to be turned on if he isn't. He can't fake it". _In his incredibly strange Derek-way, he'd been _nice _or something. And she knew that, because she knew him, he never deviated from his type -hot- usually).

"You remember their names," he notes, "I don't", and then abruptly (it couldn't have lasted anyway), "Was it deliberate."

"Was what deliberate?"

"All that stuff which I'd hate for sure- the roses and all? Was that a deliberate attempt at sabotage?"

(How _dare _he), "Just because your look-up-in-the-dictionary word-of-the-day is sabotage, does _not _mean you can say anything you want. Why would I do that?"

"I don't know, you tell me."

"I did all of it, for…Sally, okay. Because she deserves to have a perfect night."

And for some reason he's angry, his hands are clenching into fists (and he doesn't understand about _guilt. _He doesn't understand _anything_). "You know, someday it's not going to be how you think it is. And you'll hate yourself for loving the screwed-up version more than how you'd imagined it."

"You mean," and she's snapping at him (who does he think he is), "You never care about anyone to actually make it special. Maybe we should buy you a life-size mirror. That's the beginning and end of your love."

"I do care," he says (and he's hurting, why didn't she see it before), "I _care_, Casey. That's why I'm _here_. I _can't _hurt her."

He's not making any sense, but she's reaching out for him without even registering it (he _cares _about Sally and he's hurting for some reason) and then she's holding him (it's ridiculous) and telling him (stupid) things about how it's going to be okay (when?) and he's not moving away (but she's not _close _enough) and they're looking at each other (why doesn't _anything _make _sense_) and her (trembling) hand is on his (bare) back and then he's flinching like he's been burned (just like she has).

"As much as I appreciate your _sisterly _concern, I should be going back, Sally's waiting." He drawls.

And then _she's _angry, without reason, but the hard knot in her gut isn't leaving much room for thought. (He _can't _leave now. Not after _that_). "Maybe you should wear a shirt first." (And she knows she's inciting him, but he'll go back to the roses and green satin and she'll be left here. Just like she always is).

"I can't find…" and then he's looking at her again (really _looking _at her now) with that unreadable expression, "…you're wearing my sweatshirt."

She looks down and…

(Oh. Shit).

And he's standing with his arms crossed across his (still bare, she hates him) chest. Like he needs an explanation or something. Even when he knows very well (too well) that she doesn't have one. Just like the time he'd stolen all her clothes and she'd worn his shirt to school (because she didn't even _think _of Lizzie or/and her mom). There wasn't any reason, it just _was_. And he's ruining the game because he wants answers that she doesn't have.

(The thing about madness is; there isn't any outward indication mostly. All she knows is that he's going to go _back _to Sally –wasn't that what she'd wanted? - and then it'll be _different_. And she's not supposed to care but she _does _and is that so hard to understand? Because for a moment she has the same vision of Sally, smiling in the dressing room, and so fucking _gorgeous_. )

It's temporary insanity (and she wishes she had alcohol because she needs something to put the blame on).

Her gaze is deliberate and maybe he sees it in her eyes before it happens (did she mention she's the only thing he ever reads), because he's reaching out his hand and – "Casey, no, don…"

She's already taken his sweatshirt off and his hand lands on her bare shoulder. She's standing half-defiantly, her body tense and for a moment the only thing she feels is a sense of vindication because he's not so in-control after all.

She holds it out to him, 'I'm sorry it's wet. I didn't dry off after the shower.' (Except she doesn't say it because she's not exactly sure she remembers how to speak any longer).

Her heart skips a beat (and then starts pumping extra hard to make up for it) and she's throwing his words back at him. "Siblings see each other half-naked all the time, Derek."

"Siblings don't organize 'perfect' nights for each other," he snaps, "Or are you expecting me to prepare yours? An extension of my brotherly duties?"

"I can make my own nights," she says slowly, deliberately, "Like always."

He looks away, "Who was it."

She laughs (it almost sounds real), "Max. And Truman. Don't ask me how many times, I've lost count."

"Liar."

(Learned from the best) "You go on believing that, Derek. Everybody knows how protective you are of your _sisters. _I just didn't want to have to deal with that."

She's trying to stop shaking (because his _hand _is on her and he'll feel it) but it's so goddamn _hard _and he's looking at her (her _step-almost-brother _is looking at her) with undisguised…something. And then his hand is on the strap of her bra (he's her _brother_) and he's sliding it down slowly, just a finger enough to make her give up every pretence. He's suddenly closer, and can feel him breathing against the hollow of her neck (breathing, only breathing) and just that _one _millimeter and he could…

But he's pulling away; almost physically "I'm going back." And his voice is tired, "Back to Sally. Back to _your _fantasy. I'm going to touch her in ways that would make you blush. _Sally. _Because she wants me and I want her. And maybe that's enough. I'm going to make the night perfect. Because I care. A lot. More than you'll know."

(…and she catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror across the corner. Her hair is scattered around her face, her make-up –which she'd not bothered to remove-smudged and she's wearing bunny slippers and plain, white cotton underwear. Sane and sensible. Not blonde hair and beautiful green satin. Because that's who she is. And he's the guy who can make a girl in plain cotton feel beautiful with a glance. And he's also the would-be brother of her mom's child.)

And then she's tensing under his hand (and maybe the problem is that she only knows how to spell 'wrong' in one language) and he immediately moves away, his eyes half closed, hands clenched in fists at his side and she's covering herself up (inadequately) with her hands (but the dull ache in the pit of her stomach just _refuses _to go away). And then he's pulling the sweatshirt over her, his fingers too gentle for hate and too harsh for anything else.

And he's gone really (maybe she never woke up) and she's left wearing his shirt.

(It still smells like him and –fun fact- it's always going to).

* * *

_Derek might seem mean at the end, but keep in mind that Casey herself hates all forms of cheating herself, and he would definitely be cheating on Sally if he did anything. And that whole reason why he's saying that whole "I care, okay" thing is because he feels like he's cheating on Sally in a way because he's thinking of Casey while inside. _

_And also he's really confused. I mean, on one hand she's disturbed by his close proximity and on the other hand _she's _planning his and Sally's night and wants her -Sally's- night to be perfect. Like, mixed signals much?_

_(Btw, Sally's not a virgin to anyone confused. She just thinks that something btw her and Derek should be special). And Derek's outside because he's feeling really (strangely) guilty and he's not used to it. It's like someone coming out to smoke after (to be excessively crude) round-one. (And though Casey didn't deliberately sabotage the night, I think her subconcious might have helped a little). And she's a little sick at the thought that Derek might think this night to be important, unlike ever before, ie why the strange display of taking off her shirt. She isn't thinking clearly. And she wants him to want _her _for once._

_The next chapter might take a little time. Or it might now. I'm not exactly sure of my timing abilities really! :)_


	11. Chapter 11

_a/n The reviews for last chapter...uhh...I just have no words for how much I love you guys. I mean, seriously, how much awesomeness can one fandom have? All of you seem unanimous on the fact that Casey needs a guy (she SO totally does) but we'll have to wait a little for that, okay? Believe me, there'll be a role-reversal soon! :) And I loved hearing about what you think is going to happen. Keep telling me, it gives me some wonderful ideas for continuation! (Cruel Intention reference alert)._

_And the rating might go up in the next chapter and beyond. Still have to decide!_

* * *

(She wishes. A lot. The thing about her is she's always been a little too contradictory. Wonder and logic, they've always come in the same breath. Like, she _knows _the sky is blue because of Rayleigh scattering of light, but when she's looking at the sky, it's definitely not the first thing she remembers. Then it's just this awesome beautiful, powerful thing that defies any definitions and boundaries. Then the sky is blue just because...it _is._)

_ _

She wakes up (and it's all different).

She's not exactly sure _why _it's different. It isn't like he'd been a saint before he'd met Sally. In fact she'd spent most of her senior year nights trying to drown out the sound of the constant banging of his headboard. And pretending (hoping) that the _too _visible marks on his towel clad body were the results of the working of a particularly poisonous spider.

But it _is _different. Because... (he hadn't _looked _like...that, when those other girls had left. Pizza hadn't been tastier with them. He hadn't ever written _songs _for them. He'd never told them he...loved them).  
...Just because.

She gets up (and last night _had _to have been been a...particularly potent, 3-D, surround-sounded nightmare. There was _no _way… she...his sweatshirt. No. Freaking. Way.) and in all irony she had slept in _his_ t-shirt on _his_ couch while he had been in...banging (making love to) _her _roommate.  
He's Derek but she's Casey (and if you think about it for a couple of years, it actually makes perfect sense) and it's always been a big deal to her (_"I believe people shouldn't experience the _act _of love until they _are _in love"_). Like in those movies that she and Emily used to watch in sleepovers. Where there was a prince and a princess and a happily ever after. Where the guy gave up his jacket for the girl when it rained (instead of dyeing all her clothes green) and saved her from the bad guys (instead of the _girl _doing the saving...but dysfunctionality was their thing anyway).

She's interrupted in her (non) thoughts by the phone.

"Hello?"

"May I speak to Casey please?"

She frowns, trying to place the voice, "Yeah, speaking."

"Case." The voice sounds more enthusiastic, "This is Richard. From Derek's hockey team." He adds in for reference.

"You mean from _my _English class," she's speaking a little faster than necessary (but everything in her life doesn't need to be tied to _him_. She knows Richard because he's the guy who reads Tennyson with more flow than she's ever heard, _not _because he's Derek's friend).

"Yeah," he laughs, "that too."

She waits for him to continue, already knowing his question.

He hesitates for a moment, "I was just wondering…if maybe, you know, the frat party on Saturday before mid-terms. It's very de-stressing. Of course there'll be a lot of outrageous displays of testosterone and Neanderthalism and prostitution of all forms of morality, but if you could ignore that…"

"I'd love to." She interrupts, (almost) smiling.

"You would?" He sounds surprised, like he hadn't expected that particular response, "That's great. I'll pick you up at…seven then?"

"Yeah," she's about to put down the phone, (but it's a _date_. She isn't totally undesirable, Richard _likes _her…and he's not her…whatever), "Refrain from wearing your superman underwear over you jeans, okay? Nothing personal, I just think that's where the moral degradation of today's society began."

(She has used the word _refrain _and _degradation _in one sentence to somebody who will actually know their meanings).

He laughs again, "You drive a tough bargain, Señorita, but for your sake I'll try to curb my baser tendencies for one night."

She can already hear Derek's scornful 'You guys are _freaks_.' But for once it didn't matter. Richard is a guy who isn't her brother. And she is going to be the girl who doesn't think about the aforementioned brother at all.

She stands in front of the mirror for moment and the flutter of excitement in her chest at the thought of a date with a guy she likes feels like a huge deal. She'll get Richard (and Derek'll get Sally)

…and maybe that's okay.

_ _

"You're eating," she says blankly, staring at the plate stacked with pancakes.

"Once again," Lyra looks up from her contemplation of her syrup, "your supreme observation skills have left me astounded."

"No", she says, slightly annoyed, "I mean you're _eating_. Instead of _arguing_ about how a breath mint, if you look at it the right way, can constitute a balanced meal. And how alcohol fills in the necessary gaps."

"Yeah well", Lyra shoves another forkful into her mouth, "I figured watching my weight so that guys will ask me out is stupid. If the guy can't like me for who I am, then he's not worth the breath it would take to moan his name while faking an orgasm."

(Personality compatibility was obviously not a concern taken up by the dorm-issuing authorities of Queen's. But this was actually surprisingly...feministic). "Really?"

Lyra rolls her eyes, "No, not really. Sally's gone. Her cell's switched-off and I'm feeling something I've never felt before."

"Like...attraction or something?"

"No, you dimwit keener. Like _worry _or something."

She finally registers Lyra's words and her eyes widen, "_Gone? _What do you mean gone? Where could she have gone..." and just like a cartoon light-bulb moment, "...Derek's dorm."

"You might be right," says Lyra thoughtfully, "They did say that thing about this place being too over-crowded."

Her face burns with humiliation (her brain has obviously not been getting the strong signals she's been sending about a mind-wipe of the entire night). She takes down a plate and then promptly drops it, her hand trembling too hard to manage. She bends down to pick up the broken pieces (not that it _means _anything. Being a Psych major was messing with her head).

"You know," says Lyra dispassionately from her seat at the table, "I hated you when I first met you."

"No!" she says sarcastically, putting her hand over her chest "And here I thought 'keener' and 'klutz' and 'weird' and 'freak' were terms of endearment. You're breaking my heart here."

"Funny," says Lyra reflectively, "We both call you the same things and it's so different. I used to mean it and he just doesn't know how to speak without involving a word exactly opposite of what he means."

She doesn't ask about the _both _or the _he_, she doesn't want (need) to. It doesn't matter. Not anymore. Not after ("_I'm going back to her, Case"_)... whatever.

"You were so perfect," she continues, "I mean perfect grades, perfect looks, scholarship winner. You even had parents who called every night. It's like people like you are only alive to show the rest of us just exactly _how _much of screw-ups we all are."

She makes a protesting noise somewhere at the back of her throat. (_This _isn't on her 'Top Ten Things You Want to Hear from Your Roommate' list).

"But you're really as fucked-up as the rest of us, aren't you?" And strangely enough, Lyra's voice is sympathetic, "You have a hard-on for your _stepbrother _who's dating your friend and is the soon-to-be brother of your _mother's _kid. It's like…you're the dictionary definition of screwed."

"I… hard on? That's not even biologically possible." (Because, of course, _that's_ the important thing to focus on here).

Belatedly she realizes that the _right _answer would've been something like, 'Eww…gross. You have an overactive imagination and underactive brain cells.'

"Eww…gross! You have an overactive imagination and underactive brain cells."

Lyra looks at her in surprise (and that's _impossible_, ten minutes can't have passed since she last spoke. That clock was obviously on heroin or something) and then laughs, "…DING. Your time ran out…" she glances down at her watch, "three years ago."

* * *

The week passes in a flurry of classes and clocks and projects and _life._

(He doesn't come back).

* * *

Richard has nice eyes. They're brown. Richard is a nice boy. She likes him. A lot. He's genuinely cute and sweet and funny (but not in the 'hey, look at me, I'm totally cute and sweet and funny' -Derek- kind of way. Who, by the way, is neither cute nor sweet nor funny).

The alcohol always manages to break her sentences down to the bare basics (if that) and she isn't really even drunk yet. _Derek's _the one capable of getting drunk on water. Not her.

She's deliriously _happy _that he hasn't been at the residence since a week. In fact she wishes he would disappear off the face of the earth entirely. It would definitely make her believe in 'Let There Be Light' rather than the Big Bang Theory.

It's with a start that she realizes she's _kissing _Richard. _She's _kissing Richard. She's kissing Richard. And it actually feels good. Very good. Like a she-could-get-used-to-this kind of good. And that has to be an epiphany because if she can get used to this then that means…

She realizes that, oddly enough, she doesn't seem to have closed her eyes during the wonderful kissing that she's participating in because she can see him clearly standing at the doorway. She squints to make sure, but that (crazy) reddish-brown hair and those (too familiar) brown eyes don't change. (This has to be some sort of extreme hallucination. This isn't a Lifetime Movie. It's her _life_).

The most unfair part in all of this is that he has to _look _that way. Like she's just told everyone that he failed first grade. Or as if…Marti has just called him Derek.

She looks at him for a moment and then slowly (deliberately) closes her eyes.

(She cheats a second later and opens them again. He's gone).

_ _

"Derek's looking for you."

Lyra kills the moment with the practiced ease of an expert in that particular field. Casey tries to ignore her; but the moment is so dead it resists all attempts at revivification through CPR. (Why had he looked like that, anyway?)

"Really," she asks politely, "I'm not looking for him."

"_Casey_." and it's Lyra's voice. It _has _to be Lyra's voice. This sudden urge to find him. Because Lyra has never yet managed to do that 'serious' tone very well. Until now.

She finally breaks away from Richard and she's almost out the door muttering a quick sorry to the pair furiously making out like a pre-apocalypse movie couple when the _exact _shade of the blonde hair of the girl strikes her eye and she turns back in sick fascination (like a train-wreck, she doesn't want to see but she _has_ to). The color of liquid sunshine (which Derek had eloquently stated was like…"y'know, a...golden…trophy or something. It's like…not-yellow.")

(And the boy doesn't have reddish-brown hair. Or brown eyes.)

_ _

She finds him in the bathroom with a bottle of whiskey in his hands (and it strikes her that originality is definitely not a word he's ever looked up in a dictionary).

"G'way." He mutters without looking up, taking a sip of the bitter liquid (and she would've missed the grimace had she been anyone else except who she is).

"Who are you trying to fool with that thing," she snorts, "You can't hold a drink, Derek."

He takes another sip in defiance.

She sighs audibly while her heart constricts (because she's never seen _him _like this before. This is _her _whenever she believes her heart is broken. He...he's not _allowed _to look...he doesn't have a heart to break. Not without twenty tonne of nuclear explosives).

"Why'd you need me?"

He finally looks up and she takes a step back (stoplookinglike_that,_ you freak), "The day I need _you _is the day they put me in a straight-jacket and carter me away to the nearest asylum. So go _away_."

She's about to retort with a scathing remark about his intimate knowledge of straight-jackets (and how it'll definitely come useful in his future) when something catches her eye. It's just the way he's sitting there (no Derek-fucking-Venturi in the scenario) with that bottle in his hands attempting at setting his face in the usual sneer (and failing miserably). Like a little child who's scraped his knee and is trying (very hard) to remember that boys don't cry.

She's washed by a sudden wave of tenderness. The same feeling she gets when he does something stupidly endearing and pretends she doesn't know what she's talking about-- like leaving his assistant-managerial job for her and idiocy of the same kind. Except...different.

More like the tenderness she'd felt when Sally had left him (the _first _time) and she'd offered a hug (which he'd refused, and laughed at, and been all Derek-like in). The same girl shouldn't be allowed to make him look like that twice when the rest of the world (her) couldn't even manage to make him not leave them for four months.

"Don't you have somewhere _else _to be?" he asks, "Like playing tonsil hockey with the winger in the Gaels? I hope he's better at it than he is at the on-field variety of the game."

She feels a flash of possessive irritation, "Richard is as good at off-field hockey as he is on field."

"Which," he counters, "means not at all."

"Yeah, because _my _boyfriend is the one making out with my worst rival… (_Sally? Paul?_)… while I recreate a pathetic scene from a straight-to-DVD movie?"

"You're _dating _Ric?"

She stares at him blankly (because that was _so _the most important point in the whole sentence).

"Never mind," he's speaking fast, "I'm dreaming you up. It's like one of those nightmares which just never end. You're not _actually _here. You're just a… warped figment of my imagination."

"Der..."

"Shhh...No talking Princess, this is a _silent _nightmare, consisting entirely of your horrifying presence. Don't detract from it."

"De-_rek_."

"It's my fault, okay," he's speaking even faster now, till she actually has to come closer to make out the words, "It's all my fault. And now you can go and open up the champagne. Another royal fuckage from yours truly. Have they initiated the Nobel Prize in the category yet?"

(So damned insecure. Just like he's always been.)

"It's _your _fault that Sally's kissing Paul like there's no tomorrow? What did you do anyway; refuse to go down on her?"

(And just for a split second his face breaks into the impish grin at her actually having used the phrase without blushing. And she feels an almost vicious satisfaction, that even at this time, even _now _she can make him_.._.)

She blushes (he laughs).

"Actually," he's not laughing anymore, "It's all your fault."

(_She _was the reason he'd looked like that). "The strawberries," she bursts out, panic-stricken, "I didn't remember you were allergic. I swear. I'll tell her, really. I'll just..."

"More like the champagne." He mutters.

"Oh my god. I knew it! You drunk it, didn't you? And got totally trashed. What did you tell her? That your favorite drink is milk? That you actually wore guy-liner for that D-Rock performance? That you play dolls with Marti when you think no one's looking? Oh God! You told her about the time you accidentally..."

"Casey," (when did he get so close), "Calm. Down."

(And it's déjà vu all over again).

She suddenly realizes that the air seems to have been electrified and then she plays her part, "I hate it when people tell me to calm down. It makes me very tense."

(Maybe this time it'll end...differently).

"And that," he murmurs, silently kneading her shoulders (and they're almost semi-_hugging_. Where's a camera when you need one?) "Would be disastrous. A frigid, prissy, princess..."

(Lyra is obviously not the ultimate word in mood-killers).

"Hello?" He's balancing the phone between his ear and shoulder, still holding on to her.

(She can tell the _exact _second when his eyes narrow and his replies become generic. It's the exact moment when his hands drop from her shoulder and he looks at her with something so close to revulsion it makes her stomach drop.)

"Dad," he says, briefly, "Nora's in the hospital."

_ _

"Derek, you are the most _annoying _brother."

"_Step-_brother."

"Same difference."

(Curtain Call).

* * *

_The End...(okay, not really!)_

_Nora's not dying or anything. She's just going to have the baby! And don't hate Sally, what she did was knowingly and for the best probably (I know their break-up is kind of mysterious...if you haven't already guessed...but it WILL be explained!)_

_And I need some advice, what exactly is the procedure of taking leave from college? Because Derek and Casey need to go for a visit back to the fam... (DASEY ALERT!)_


	12. Chapter 12

_a/n Oh man, thank you SO much for all the support for this, 'kay? (I still find it crazy that people actually ask me to update this and mean it!) Your reviews sort of make my year and actually keep me writing. I saw the latest HP and I was kind of blinded by all the pretty (DRACO CRYING. GUH.) and wandered back to the HP fandom. Not to mention my computer time is severely limited so excuse me if I haven't replied to something (I'll get down to it soon!) As for '_Days Like These', _I was thinking of a sequel of sorts but I'm not sure. But I'm still glad you liked it!_

_DISCLAIMER: Disclaimed. Also, Bollywood aficionados will be able to distinguish a _very _familiar scene (couldn't help myself, really!)_

**___**

(She sometimes thinks silence might just be the loudest sound in the world.)

**___**

He's staring straight ahead, his fingers gripping the steering wheel. Hard. Till his knuckles turn white.

Not that she knows (or cares) because she isn't looking at him or anything. If he, with the mental capabilities of a four-year-old (a very _late _developing four-year-old), can play the 'ignoring' game then she practically wrote the rules for it.

She can't believe he agreed to this. Because doing crazy things is _her _forte (the stupidly, moronically crazy things are his) and mostly she lives to regret them. And travelling four and a half hours in the middle of the night to London to surprise her mom and George definitely screams 'call the the psychiatrist'. But maybe he wants to run away too (wait, not _too_, who else wants to run away?) from Sally. And Paul. And SallyandPaul. (There are stretches of time when she doesn't think about the bathroom incident at all. Like when she's...not awake. Dreams don't count, after all, that's beyond her control. Besides it's not like she _has _dreams anyway).

He rolls down his window and all the elements rush in to fill the gaps left in their (non) conversation. In a minute they're both completely soaked and she resists the urge to lean over him and shut the window.

(Okay, she doesn't).

She leans over him. His body immediately goes taut, and he presses the brakes hard, trying to get her to move away, without words. (Obviously it doesn't work. With the kind of karma she has, beginning to fear she must've been Hitler in her previous life).

It strikes her that her head is in his _lap, _as in...almost between his legs...as in...she's almost _lying _on him. On him. On Derek.

"If," he begins tightly, "it's not too much trouble, may I request you to get _off _me?"

(It's the downside of all those 'unjumble the given sentences' she's so fond of and living with Lyra. Otherwise there was absolutely _no _way she could have just thought...)

She raises her head abruptly and rips his hand off the wheel in getting back to her seat.

She switches on the radio and cranks it up. It's better than fighting a losing battle against the overpowering silence anyway.

Of course, he switches it off.

"De-_rek_", she says, turning it on again.

(It's stupid. Why is _everything _a game for him? Why can't he just let it go).

He catches her hand just as she tries to turn it on for the fifth time. And then her hand is entwined in his, harsh and unforgiving. Both of them unwilling to give-up and let go (and she regrets ever having chosen Psychology as her major). He accidentally (it has to be, just has to...) runs his thumb across the side of her hand and she pulls her hand back immediately as her skin breaks out in (stupid, revealing, traitorous) goosebumps. But not before he turns his head and smirks a little (not meeting her eyes, why the _hell _won't he meet her...)

"I'm cold," she says abruptly, by way of explanation (and anyway, that is the true reason. It's raining. Rain is cold. His window is down. So she's getting drenched. And therefore, she's cold. And her skin is reacting to the cold in the usual way. Everything follows from logic, which he doesn't have an ounce of, and therefore, whatever he might be thinking is null and void for the lack of a comprehensive argument for...why things are the way they are).

"I'm cold," she insists (again).

He glances at her, "There's another word for it, Princess. Frigid."

She glares daggers through the side of his head (because what the hell does he know about her anyway?)

"Lots of guys who'd differ with you on that." And strangely enough, she's whispering. A-prelude-to...something-in-a-movie kind of whispering.

His jaw tightens (and she doesn't register it, because she's not looking, remember).

"In fact," she says (and why the _hell _isn't her brain getting the SHUT UP memo she's been faxing since her mouth first decided to go solo?), "the words they use are more related to _fire _than ice. Like..."  
He turns (finally) and looks at her (finally), and she edges a little to the other side in her seat at the dangerous glint in his eyes, "Do you want to go there, Casey? Because I swear..."

She interrupts (of course) because she is (was, used to be) the sane, sensible one and therefore she should practice to slow down the fast demise of her sanity and sensibility, "Keep your eyes on the road, Derek."

He laughs softly (sort of), refusing to take his eyes off her "Thought so."

She glared at him (or glares at the front windshield, because she can't look...he looks so...she just _can't_).  
"Do you even know where you're driving to?" (See, when they weren't on a subject at all, she couldn't possibly have changed it).

"Of course." He sticks his lip out at being questioned on something that ran in the bloodstream of ever male (an inability to admit they're lost).

"Really," she asks, suspiciously, "Because we've been driving in Clarington since..." she checks her watch, "_De-rek! _We've been driving since _three hours! _We should've reached Toronto by now."

"So we'll reach it," he says sullenly, "It's just taking...time."

"_Three hours? _Derek we're supposed to reach London in an hour and half and we haven't even reached Toronto."

"If you would kindly shut up, and let me think..."

"_Think_," she says, beside herself, "Sure, I'll just stake our lives on your excuse for a brain. At least it's the fastest way to gain nirvana. Or reach heaven. Or maybe get lost till our bones are found by..."

He reaches out and takes her hand firmly in his. "Casey. Stop freaking out. It's okay."

She stills immediately and almost unconsciously traces patterns on his skin (tit for tat).

He looks at her and maybe it's the dark playing tricks on her eyes. Because his eyes seem (too) dark too.  
"Casey...," he begins warningly (and she wants him to stop looking. At her. And saying her _name_. Like that. Because...hospital. And sibling. And hers. And his. And...she just wants him to _stop_.)

"De-_rek. _There's a car coming, and if you don't look ahead, you're going to..."

He swerves instinctively and she closes her eyes as she hears a sickeningly familiar (again? not again? how many _fucking _times was this going to happen) crunch of metal.

He stares for a moment down the empty road and then turns to her in disbelief.

"I was...kidding?" she offers.

* * *

They're sitting on top of the car and she's feeling like she's watching a rerun of a movie she first saw uncountable number of years ago.

"Maybe it's not that bad?" she begins fake-brightly and then winces as the sound of something falling reaches her. "Okay, it _is _that bad. But we still have...phones. We can call George up and tell him to pick us up!"

"Yeah," he says sarcastically, "Hey dad! You're with Nora in the hospital, right? How's she doin'? The kid pop out yet? So listen, there's just this little thing...we've totalled the car. And we have no idea where we are. ("I knew it!") And we were just wondering if you could come pick us up. Yeah, I know it's one in the morning, but if you start now and develop psychic-ness then you might find us two weeks from never."

"Psychic-ness isn't a word," she says and only by a show of extreme willpower manages to save herself from biting her tongue.

He glares at her and mutters something that sounds suspiciously like 'whatev, keener.'

"Look," she says, determined to make the best of the situation, "Think of it this way; it can't get any worse."

(Was it actually _hailing_?)

* * *

"Mom and George are going to _kill _us," she whines and she has an uncomfortable feeling that she's acting like one of those hysterical females she's always raised her nose at (but _this _situation warrantees it).

"Yeah, if _you _tell them. They didn't know we were coming, so we can pretend we started later."

"It's all your fault!" That's the crux of every situation-- blame Derek, "If you hadn't left the map behind, supremely confident in your own 'manly' abilities we wouldn't _be _here."

"Says the girl who made me crash the car. I can't believe Nora's never been called by the Social Security considering how many times she must've dropped you on your head."

"You're clinically insane if you think we're going to spend the night at…this…this…" she flails for words as the small (what was it again?) hotel came into view. "There is no way I'm sleeping…_here_. I bet they never wash the sheets and the bathroom has never heard of disinfectant. There is just _no _way I'll…" And she's shivering and her hair is plastered to her face and she probably looks like a dying rag-doll, but she's still _Casey _and she's not going to do every (any) thing he says.

"Good night, then." He says, sounding bored out of his skull, "Your dying of pneumonia would definitely help combat population explosion in the country. Know that you'll breathe your last for a noble cause."

Of course she follows.

* * *

The manager is starting to irk her. He keeps looking at her (or more specifically _parts _of her) and she resists the urge to cross her hands over her chest. Derek looks oblivious as usual, and for once she'd like him to be sensitive and save her from being noticeably undressed by a guy who looks old enough to be her father, but of course Derek (being Derek) would never even realize…

"Your shirt is transparent," he whispers pulling her closer to himself, so she's half hidden behind him, her chest hard against his side, and she loses her train of thought (in fact it derails so spectacularly, she's surprised there hasn't been an accident yet). And for a long, agonizing moment she's aware of the fact that she's wet and her body reacts a certain embarrassing way to the cold which must be obvious to him through his own shirt and for a moment she contemplates pulling away (but then it'll be _obvious _and he'll…realize). Defiantly, she stays in position.

The manager is now looking at both of them with unwavering curiosity, "May I help you?"

"Yeah," he says, his tone clipped and harsh, "We need a room."

She accidentally (and no court of law can prove otherwise) elbows him in the side in annoyance. "Two rooms," she says, and it detracts from her stance that she has to stand on the tip of her toes to reach his ear (sometimes she really hates him), "We need _two _rooms, you moron."

He looks down at her like she's an infuriating fly that he can't crush and she elbows him (accidentally) in the ribs again. "How come you didn't tell me about the lottery you won?" He drawls out and her heart sinks somewhere down to her toes, because this hadn't been _planned _or anything and logically it's be stupid to rent two rooms for the night and it wasn't like he'd never slept in her room before, but… (but there'd always _been _someone… Lyra, Sally, anyone, this was…) whatever.

"Fine," she says, giving in with bad grace and crossing her arms, which she realizes a second later is a really bad idea because only helps push her…assets against his back and he immediately stiffens.

"One room for the night," says Derek sharply and she flinches at the ice in his tone, even though it's not directed at her.

The manager (who's starting to remind her of the guy in _Psycho_…oh god…no, she wouldn't go there) grins at them, "How would you like to pay, sir? By the day … or on per hour basis?"

She feels him go rigid again.

"Listen," he says, "Just answer what you're being asked. _How much for a day_."

She steps out from behind him (after all what he knows about Economics can be contested by a three-year-old on a sugar high), "Don't be stupid, Derek. Why would we need the room for the entire day? We just need it for a few hours obviously."

"Casey," he says grimly, "You don't understand what he's imply…"

"Oh, shut up," she manages exasperatedly, "Let me handle this."

"Fine", he almost-shouts in frustration, moving away.

The manager looks at her with renewed interest (and she can almost swear he's just said 'feisty' but she's obviously hearing things), "We'll take the room on a per hour basis."

"How many hours," the manager chances a glance at Derek, who's leaning against the wall, hands crossed over his chest. And in a one-eighty degree turn of events; looking like he's trying not to smile. An eye-brow raised as he stares at her.

She turns to Derek, uncertainly, "Four…do you think?" The smirk widens on his face as he shrugs his shoulders in an incomprehensible gesture. "Maybe…six…or seven. Seven should be enough don't you think?" But he seems to have lost the little bit of sanity that has, till now, saved him from a straight-jacket and white walls of a lunatic asylum and is bent over double, laughing.

The guy at the counter stares at Derek, slack-jawed, "_Six or seven. _How can you manage for that long?"

Derek stands up again, "Practice." He says, flashing the half-smile she's heard described as 'devastating' (but mostly reminds her of…of…something… something not at all sexy. Like…dead rats…or something).

She can swear that the counter-guy is looking at Derek in almost… (is it _reverence_) and she turns around to ask him but he just raises an eyebrow in a 'how should I know' gesture. She's uncomfortable aware of some point that she's missed and it makes her mad (because there should be _nothing _he should be able to understand better than her). "When you're done here, _bro, _kindly call room-service and ask them to change the sheets."

The smirk drops right off his face and she feels a twinge of satisfaction (no, really, she does, except it's masked by another indefinable emotion and anyway, she's almost _right _this time, because in another day or a few hours there'll be no ambiguity in "…_annoying _brother." "_Step_-brother." "Same difference.")

She can feel his eyes hard on her back as she moves up, and all of a sudden she's even more conscious of the fact that she's soaking and ("Your shirt is transparent") which is just _ridiculous, _because he's…Derek. She doesn't even need to establish a relationship beyond that focal point, because just his being Derek should be enough to make her _not _think these (supidcrazy) things.

The sound of silence is loud in her ears till it's broken by…

"_Bro?_" asks the manager weakly.

* * *

_The manager thinks they're one kinky pair *wink* I think the story is veering off the _extreme _angsty direction for which I'm very glad! But next chapter--- Total Dasey Alert._


	13. Chapter 13

_a/n Well, I was sitting at home (having slept the wrong way and cricked my neck badly) so I decided to write :) I am so excited, it's the first time I've really written a story that's turning out so long. Your reviews are...I run out of words here. But thank you, you guys are unbelievably, crazily awesome. Now hopefully this chapter won't disappoint. There is more Dasey in the next. I've reached to the 100th page of 'Mill on The Floss' and I'm already shipping Tom/Maggie (thus the reference!) :P_

_You know, all your reviews are pretty accurate. You totally guess what's going to happen! (Although you also seem to think I am capable of extending torture indefinitely :) Oh, and absolutely right-- it _was _Jab We Met!_

_Disclaimer: Disclaimed_

* * *

(It starts with a storm. And that is just stupid. And cliché. And wrong. So wrong.

And beautiful.)

**_*_**

He saunters in, whistling, with a small bag in his hand. She's standing in the room, her face muscles contorted in horror. She can _feel_ him looking at her, and his loud, theatrical sigh makes her want to hit him with something. Preferably pig iron. It's called poetic justice.

"_What _is it, now?"

(Can't he _see_)?

She's about to point (with a stupidly trembling finger) at the too small bed, the scratchy-looking sheets, the TV that probably hadn't been dusted circa 2000 B.C., when she catches a glimpse of his expression through the mirror. The half-amusement in his eyes makes her stop. He looks like…this is what he _expects _of her. Just like all his other girls-- who scream when they see a spider and use horror movies as an excuse to hold on to him. (And she won't ever be that girl. Not for him. Because he isn't allowed to look at her like…like he _knows _her. Because honestly, he doesn't know a single damn thing).

"Nothing," she says, just as nonchalantly as she can manage, "I thought I saw a mouse on the floor…or maybe two," and has the satisfaction of seeing him practically jump on the bed (pretending, of course, that that had been his planned course of action all along. Stupid Derek and his stupid pretences. Who did he really think he was kidding here?)

He's already switched on the T.V. and changed the channel to wrestling, when it finally registers;

"De-_rek_!"

"Mmm?"

"Where's my _bag_?"

He looks up briefly from the screen to smirk at her, "Don't tell me you've already lost it Space-Case. Haven't you ever been taught about responsibility? Really, sometimes I think…"

"…As consuming as that unfamiliar activity must be for you," she snaps, "I want to know where you left my bag."

"Downstairs", and he's glaring holes through the T.V. screen now, "I didn't want to spoil your wonderful exit by reminding you of it."

("When you're done here, _bro, _kindly call room-service and ask them to change the sheets.")

She won't (_can't_) react, "And you couldn't have brought it up because…?"

"Because it's my brotherly duty to make your life as miserable as possible. Haven't you read Mill on The Floss?"

She stares at him, "_You_ haven't read it."

"I've heard you go on about it," he says, "it was almost as boring as having had to read the damn thing myself."

"That was different," she retorts, "Their relationship has inc…" she shuts up forcibly before she can complete '_incestuous overtones' _(for no other reason than she would've had to explain the…terms involved and she doesn't have the time for it…because…because…because her _bag_ is downstairs).

He doesn't ask about the half-completed sentence and she turns again, her hand at the door knob. Before something hits her on the back of her head.

"DE_-REK_!"

She turns around in anger and picks up (his _sweatshirt_?) from the ground.

He's not looking at her and (why doesn't he _look _at her). He sighs in exasperation when she continues to stare at him, "If you die of pneumonia, Nora isn't going to be too happy with me. And I don't think a post-natal, furious Nora is someone I want to deal with. She's perfectly capable of making me sit with your…" he pretend-shudders (and sometimes she wonders if he knows he's so easy to see through), "...album of baby pictures. And I don't think I can stare at that thing without losing…"

(He's going on. But he still isn't looking at her. And her shirt is still transparent).

* * *

The guy at the counter looks up from his contemplation of (what she hopes is) his mug of coffee.

He glances at his watch when as she comes down and mutters to himself.

"I didn't quite catch that." She says politely.

"He's only been up there since ten minutes! How could he have completed a round already?"

(Was it true that mad-men had ten times the strength of a normal man?)

She inches towards her suitcase, as inconspicuously as possible, "Maybe, he's fast?"

The manager looks at her (his) sweatshirt with an almost-predatory gleam (and without any preamble she wishes he was down here with her. Because…not that she feels _safe -_or anything- with him. It's just that…he has a lifetime of experience of beating up people with a huge stick), "He's fast all right."

She smiles politely (It's always best to placate clinically insane people) and lifts up her heavy suitcase (his -- 'We're not running away to _China_, Casey. Could you be any _more _of a princess?' running in her head).

"Don't your parents mind?" (Which is a surprisingly sane question).

She thinks of the dented Prince and the fact that she's spending the night alone (with _him_) in a Psycho-style motel, "They don't know."

"Be careful, young lady," (and it's the strangest thing ever, but in that bizarre moment he reminds her of…no _way _was she thinking of her dad), "these things have a habit of blowing up in your face. You're young and he's young and if it ever goes beyond the physical, you're going to be heartbroken. It's not…a generally accepted…thing."

(_If _mom and George came to know, 'blowing up' would be an understatement).

It's only when she's standing at her (his, their) door that the second part of his sentence registers (had they even been talking in the same language?)

* * *

"You're back," he notes, with a skill capable of putting the highest ranked FBI official to shame.

"No thanks to you," she's lugging the suitcase behind her (and would it kill him to be sensitive for _once _and actually –God forbid- _help _her?)

"Yes," he says, effectively reading her mind, "You packed your suitcase and so must you carry it. Think of it this way; if a rakish, exotic hula-dancer from Hawaii wanted to whisk you off to be his grass-skirt wearing slave then you won't even need a trip back to the dorm."

And quite suddenly she realizes she's exhausted. The whole day (not to mention the night before) has taken its toll on her and all she wants is to sleep.

(Which is of course when it strikes her with all the subtlety of a grand piano in a one-bedroom apartment--)

"Derek," she tries to inject her tone with ominousness, "Where are you sleeping?"

And she also realizes, in a very long second, that she was the only one who hadn't registered…_this_. Because his face remains carefully blank.

"On the bed, Case. But you're welcome to follow whichever sleeping ritual they do on your planet. I won't think less of you because of it."

"Derek," she said, tiredly, "we can't sleep on the same bed." And she knows she's opened herself to questioning, but it's just _too _much right now.

"I never said we're sleeping on the same bed. Call for a mattress, the ground looks comfortable enough."

"So you'll..." she begins hopefully.

"No," he says, effectively stemming her flow, "_you _will."

"Derek, I'd have thought that even with your general lack of decency and decorum on ways of polite society..."

"Casey", he says, and she can tell by his tone he's not just messing around with her for the hell of it, "_you _have a problem here. So _you _find an alternative. But I'm not getting out."

"You honestly have no problem with us sleeping on the same bed?" (Because she _needs _to know).

"I've slept with Marti a lot of times," he says (that goddamned _one _expression she hasn't been able to read, on his face).

"What the _hell _does _that_ have to do with…" she lashes out…and then cuts herself off abruptly.

(Because.

"Derek, you are the most _annoying _brother."

"_Step_-brother."

...

"Same difference.")

He's still looking at her inscrutably (and she can't handle this. She just _can't_. Not right now).

"Fine," and she needs to take a deep breath simply because (her mother is in the hospital, about to give birth to _their _sibling) she's not going to fight, not on this. "I'll call up room service."

He looks oddly frustrated, like he'd expected more out of her. Because giving in (or giving up) wasn't something that either of them were good at. They fought till the end and (more often than not) got stuck on stalemate.

The mattress is already laid out when she comes out of the bathroom after having showered. She's still (inexplicably) wearing his sweatshirt (for no other reason than that it's warm and smells like...). There's a moment when he looks up at her, her hair still plastered across her face, shivering, when she thinks he might (just _might_) offer to take up the mattress. Not that it makes any difference but ... (maybe he cares, just a little, very little, but still cares).

Then he turns back to his mobile and she feels an odd disappointment settle in the pit of her stomach.

**_*_**

It's too dark and the lighting too bright and the thunder too loud. She wakes up with her head filled with images from an Alfred Hitchcock movie which she most definitely shouldn't have seen. And it's stupid and completely ridiculous (and she's _eighteen _for God's sake, in _college_) but that doesn't seem to matter because she's scared and (she's _crying_?) And it's too much and where the hell is he?

"Casey," she hears his urgent whisper, almost drowned out by the thunder, "what happened?"

She clutches to him in blind fear which knows no reason and threatens to drown out all logic. He's holding her and even in the middle of (it's too dark) all she can think of is that she knew they would have their family moment sometime. Because for the first time he's not running away. And she's breaking his name but it's not intentional, she simply can't say it without crying. And he's still holding her. That's important. She's not sure why and she's too tired (too drained) to pretend. But it's important. He's dragging her off to (his) bed and there's that detached part of her that's laughing because their fight had been useless. He's whispering words ('shhh…it's all right. Casey, I'm here. Baby, it'll be fine. Shut your eyes. I'm here") which don't make any sense and what language is he speaking anyway? And she wants him to change his tone (doesn't he realize it's dangerous?) but he's holding her too tightly for her to care about anything else. Which in itself is a damn shame, because not caring about anything else means she can't pretend in the moment. And she wants so hard to pretend. The moment's too broken and too…_much_. And she's feeling a lot more than she's thinking ("Stop thinking the music and start feeling it") and its wrongright and rightwrong.

(And she's not exactly sure which is which).

**_*_**

"Why did Sally kiss Paul?"

It's only much later, she's calmed down enough for her breathing to return back to normal.

"Because she was angry with me." He says, in a way that makes her feel that he's too old (or she's too young). And somehow she remembers him with those kids at her summer camp and with Marti and thinks she might have loved him fiercely if she'd been them. (And she thinks she might love him fiercely anyway which makes her a little sicker than the thunder had done).

"Why was she angry with you?"

He laughs and the bitter sounds cuts through the rain far less effectively than his whisper had done, "I won't blame her. It's not every day a guy gets off on his sister's name."

"What?" (because she's obviously not hearing right).

"Casey", he says, and he sounds just as drained as she feels, "Don't make me say it again."

"It was the champagne, wasn't it?" She says, reflectively (it doesn't have to mean anything).

"And the roses. And the strawberries. And the satin sheets. And Sally's lingerie. You couldn't have been more there even if you'd…been there."

"It was a reflex action," and it's strange she's defending him but she remembers how he'd looked on the bathroom floor and she wants to _hate _Sally, "I guess I just made the whole thing so much into what…I'd wanted…that obviously you couldn't think of anything else. I shouldn't have and it makes sense you'd think of me, especially when you're allergic to strawberries and that's just the kind of prank we would pull on each other. And it was my fault. I wasn't really thinking…"

"Do you think that was it?" Maybe he's asking something different and maybe some other time she'd have understood better.

"Yes. Yes, I do."

(No. No, she doesn't. Think. Or hope. Or…whatever).

His grip tightens on her back (he still hasn't let her go?) "What will it look like?"

"What?"

"The baby." He says "Nora's baby. _Our _sibling."

"It'll probably have brown eyes," she says, a little in awe (because everything is different, but she's going to love it, even if...everything changes), "It's the more dominant gene."

He tangles his hand in her hair and she closes her eyes, "It'll probably have your hair. That thing's a mutant growth on its own. I can't imagine it _not _being the dominant gene."

She smiles against his neck, "You're going to spoil it rotten. And it'll still like you better."

"What can I say", his voice lights up with the arrogance which makes her sometimes think his ego must require a planning order to fit in a house, "It's the Derek Venturi charm."

And he's silent for a while. And without warning he's moving close (closer). His damp hair against her neck and if she just turns that _little _bit maybe she can…

"We're going to be siblings," he says quietly, "Scared McDonald?"

(Just a little. Not quite.

Maybe.)

"No," she says defiantly, "why would I be?

He doesn't say anything for an eternal moment the half-exasperated half-tender look in his eyes making her stomach drop unexpectedly.

"I am," he says finally (softly, so softly she can't even be sure of it).

And kisses her.

* * *

_Heh :)_


	14. Chapter 14

_a/n Oh, believe me, the last chapter wasn't supposed to be a cliffhanger or anything. (I don't do cliffhangers mostly!) It's just that this one needed its own rhythm, so I decided to end there. The formatting of this chapter is distinctly different, but it should be obvious why :) _

_You thought I'd end at the kiss? I gave you 12 chapters of unrelenting angst...you deserve more!_

_Song to Listen To While Reading: **Honey and the Moon- Joseph Arthur**_

_Disclaimer: Naah. Neither do I own 'That Day' by Natalie Imbruglia_

* * *

(She'd always thought she'd remember every bit of it.

She'd remember the time breaking down into tiny seconds and each feeling as it came by. She'd remember each word, each sound, each sigh. And beneath closed eye-lids her world would burst into glorious technicolor and she'd finally understand what it was all about.

She'd never thought it'd be like this).

* * *

She doesn't exist in the moment. And it almost feels like someone's torn the timeline into tiny fragments and scattered them around her because she can only see flashes and pieces. And she's trying to forget each second as it passes by because tomorrow this will never have happened. The way it (should have been) will be.

(And she doesn't think. And maybe if she had been, she'd have thought it ironic that this one time she's actually stopped thinking and started…feeling is because of him).

And all she can feel is his _experienced _hands trembling against the buttons of her (his) shirt. And maybe she'll laugh later because he was supposed to be the _master _at this and he can't even unbutton her (his) shirt.

It's so funny…it's almost (achingly sweet and she can't take it. Not now).

(And maybe someday she'll look at him and not recall how it… feels.

Someday.

Maybe).

And she won't remember. She won't remember her hand on his, guiding for once. She won't remember the feel of his mouth against her skin. She won't remember his close-mouthed kisses which make her stomach drop. She won't remember the way he says _'Please, Case' _and she won't remember how it tastes like apology and regret and… something else, just a little sweeter (sadder). And she won't remember how…she won't…

(No, she _won't. Goddamn you, she won't._)

And his head is at her throat and maybe he'll mark her (he won't, he doesn't need to, he never did) but those marks will disappear and his words are sinking deeper into her skin till she's not sure she'll be able to scrub them away, no matter how much she tries, no matter how raw her skin gets. His words (his touch) will always be flowing through her bloodstream (and she _hates _him for it).

And he's whispering (or maybe she is) _wrong _and _mistake _and it doesn't matter because on every word their breathing gets more labored and then he (she) has to stop for a while to get the pronunciation right. Or maybe to remember the word at all. But they're saying it again and again till she can't remember what it meant in the first place. And maybe (maybe) it never _did _mean anything. A bunch of meaningless letters combined, just another unwritten rule to float her to the grave.

She doesn't believe in destiny or the guiding hand of fate. She believes in free will and choices. She believes…and she should walk away because the stars are too far away (too small) to take the blame that she so desperately (desperately) wants to share. Walk away and not come back. Because this isn't the beginning. And it's not the end. And no, no she's _not _afraid. Not afraid that this is just a little digression from the actual plot. A cheap, crowd-pulling tactic. Because even if it is (as it _is_) she won't care simply because…she…she…doesn't…care.

(Fuck you. _She doesn't._ She never did. Never. _Ever_).

And she'll have a lot more to laugh at. She had thought there'd be music, and satin sheets and silk lingerie and chocolate-covered strawberries and champagne and they'd _make love_.

(And she's lying on a coarse, cheap sheet burning into her back and the rain drowns out the other sounds and there's nothing but him and his harsh breathing in her ear and it's desperate and _want _like she's never felt before and it's more. And it's tawdry and inelegant and perfect. It's him and it's enough).

And she wishes she had alcohol. That would burn and break down barriers and she could blame it. Because she _would _blame it and _this _wouldn't mean anything. This would be another mistake and she'd vow never to drink again. It would be a clinical statistic and she'd read up on the drawbacks of too much alcohol and feel good knowing that it wasn't _her, _it was the intoxicant. She was under the _influence. _But all she has are her traitorous hands and his sweat-slicked body against hers and no alcohol, no stars, no excuse.

And he's saying things which make her breath catch hard and her heart beat faster (stop beating) because he's never called her _beautiful _and he's fumbling and he's uncoordinated and ungraceful (and Derek) and she thinks she might love him.

(He tastes a little like bitter honey and she removes the word 'might' from her vocabulary).

It's dark (_so dark_) and maybe she can pretend. Just this once. Make it what it was _supposed _to be. Pretend he isn't who he is. Just _make-believe. _And maybe sometime she'll start to believe it and this won't be what it is. And they won't be who they are. Maybe he has blond hair. And grey eyes. And he's toughsoft and has a deep voice and he helps his opponents when they're down and believes in Karl Marx's Literary Theory.

And it's thunder and lightning and he's lit up and all she can see is him. (He's goddamn beautiful). And he has reddish-brown hair and brown eyes and he's no one but Derek. Derek, who doesn't know who Karl Marx is and calls her 'princess' and fixes her every single damn time. Derek, her _almost brother _(and it even _sounds _like almost lover, and it's so hilarious she can almost cry). And as she traces his face beneath her fingertips, she has a sickening feeling it wasn't anyone but Derek anyway.

He's staring and she's blushing and (_don'tlookatmelikethat). _And so she shuts herself and maybe now it'll be easier. Someone else. Someone without_ his_ face and a way of saying her name three times.

"Don't close your eyes."

His voice breaks on every word and she opens them again and he's so close (too close) and she never realized his eyes had tinges of hazel too. Tantalizing hints and glimpses and she's looking at him. And she's in his eyes and she's beautiful.

(She'll never be able to imagine again).

"Not tonight", his breathing is harsh in her ear, "Please Casey, not tonight. Just…not tonight."

And he's touching her, so it's unfair and she wants to say it but she's living in a world of sounds and glimpses and (she can't say it, not tonight) the words remain unspoken. And maybe it's softer…melting into a world of _need _and _want _and _please _and _you_.

(And maybe it's harder this way).

And maybe if this was a book, like those books she reads, she'd have realized. The harsh sound of the condom wrapper in the enclosure of their thundering stillness would have broken her trance. And she'd have stopped him (because this is _wrong. _Wrong. And beautiful).

(But maybe the sound gets drowned out by a loud roll of thunder. Maybe).

And maybe she should have _read _more because she doesn't know what's happening and (_ithurtsithurts_) and was it supposed to feel like this. Maybe you can't feel love till it _is_ love (which it isn't. It _isn't_), because she only feels dirty and _hurt _and _ohgodsobadly_. And she doesn't classify the fierce satisfaction which makes her (almost) shut her eyes and cry out, simply because she doesn't have a category for that yet. And she has nothing to find. And nothing to lose.

Through half-shut, feverish eyes she watches the comprehension blaze in his and it's too late to stop. And she continues with blind insistence. Because it's too late to stop (and maybe it was too late three years ago). She clamps her mouth and doesn't say them. Words that threaten to spill over and escape and _mean_. And she _won't. _She won't say it and _mean _it. Not now. Not when...

And then he touches her and it's awkward and strange and not like she imagined it would be. And the exploration is sheer delight. Learning and remembering and finding out and _ohgodtouching _(...and her world reduces to heat and light and it's love. It _has _to be. It can't feel like this and not be love. It _can't_).

And he's whispering; '_I'm so sorry. Oh God, Casey, I'm so, so sorry' _and she wants to tell him something and she thinks she should tell him something. Anything to make him stop looking like that. And there's this moment of glaring lightning and the clash of the elements, when his hand is entwined in hers and she thinks she just _might _and then the darkness shrouds them again and she can only touch and hope he understands as she kisses away his whispered apologies. (She doesn't close her eyes).

Yes, they're a marvelous mess. And it's hard and it's sweet and it's supposed to be like this.

Strangely enough it's the only thing she can think of. They're going to be more than just step-siblings. They're going to be linked by more than just a piece of paper. They're _going _to be…more. But right now. Just _right now_, he's just the boy with the pretty eyes. And she…she's just a girl. A silly, broken girl who's so smart and intelligent and just so _stupid_.

And _right now, _as the fragmented pieces of her (life?) time float around her blown about by the wind and rain; tomorrow doesn't exist.

(Not tonight).

* * *

"Derek, you are the most _annoying _brother…"

"…_Step_-brother"

(Same difference?)


	15. Chapter 15

_I really apologize to fadedmystery and ereshkigalgirl and SoRightItsWrong whom I haven't been able to reply to because they have excellent views and I need time to think them out. Sorry, I'll get down to it! And mayfair22 probably brought about this chapter much faster than it _would _have come out actually ^_^  
Oh, and you_ guys_, read **Faulty Relations **by bsloths (which she's kind enough to say I 'co-wrote') and while you're at it, prod P. Satori for a USteps update (I think that's been longer not-updated than this :P)_

**Disclaimer: **Disclaimed. Any M&B that might have found its way in here is also not mine.

_

* * *

_

It's always talked about in whispers and secret glances, the morning after. Because there's always the possibility of future trysts and maybe lust turning into...something more. Something that would result in a fifty-years later and side-by-side graves. Definitely not a shared sibling.

(She wonders if there's a manual for 'The Morning after the Night I Slept with My Step-Brother.'

Somehow she thinks she might have set the precedent).

* * *

"Good morning."

She's always known that his vocabulary comprises of fifty-four words, but this pleasantry, drenched in sarcasm though it may be, seems rather anti-climactic in the wake of blinding sunlight and drowning guilt

"Good morning," she repeats, stiffly. She doesn't know what he's playing at now but she's damned if she's going to let him beat her at it.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

His voice sounds strained, like he's gritting his teeth while speaking and the change in tone is so surprising, she turns to look at him through half-lidded eyes. Like _he's _the one with the patented right to be angry here. And she doesn't even _want _to know what he's talking about because she. doesn't. care.

"Tell you what?" She asks politely, childishly. (And maybe they've always been irony's favorite children because the reactions of her body at his close proximity are far from childish, and if she still wrote poetry maybe she'd talk about corrupted innocence). And she wants to tell him to move away because he's already messed around with her mental system in four years and now he's ruining her physical systems as well. She's going to end up in some mental institution talking about this guy named Derek whom she used to l...oathe.

(This is still _Derek. _Her annoying almost-brother whom she dislikes very intensely. Because...he's _Derek. _That's justification on its own. An incontrovertible fact like...like gravity or something. Casey very intensely dislikes Derek and all objects fall down because of the force of gravity. Both statements are absolutely true.

They _are._)

"_God, _Casey," he runs his hand through his hair and succeeds in messing it up even more. (She did not run her hand through his hair and make it look like that. She. Did. Not), "you're the most naïve, basketcase of a person that I've ever had the misfortune of...why the fucking hell didn't you _tell me_? What the _fuck _was that about _Truman and Max _and _you don't know anything about me_."

She falls back against the hard mattress, where she'd almost risen in half-indignation with a suitable retort aimed at his mental capacities or a lack thereof. And quite suddenly, without even enough strength to be surprised at the fact, she realizes she's tired. Too tired to fight right now and pretend she doesn't know what he's talking about. Too tired to look at him and see the look in his eyes and realize that she's been reading too much into it. Too tired to wonder if the remote-fights and babe-raider outfits had meant a lot more to him unlike the prom dresses and hula-hoops that she keeps locked away in some tiny corner of her mind and doesn't think about _at all_.

(And it's not like she'd thought otherwise. Because that'd have been stupid. And even if she's the girl stupid enough to sleep with her step-brother, she's not going to be the girl stupid enough to read too much into wimpy tag teams).

"You...you just," and the truth is she has no idea why, it's not like she'd been thinking it out (yeah, it isn't like understatement is one of her faults) and he'd made her so _mad _and he'd...always gone _on _and _on _and..."you treated me like some cast-iron virgin and kept making fun of me. It's all your fault."

"Yeah," he retorts, falling back too, "just like global warming and separatist policies."

She turns her head to glare at him and resolutely keeps her eyes above his neck, "Whatever, Derek. If you hadn't taunted me so much then maybe..."

He sits up in confrontation, the sheets falling down, and it isn't like she hadn't _known _that they...they're not exactly... dressed and it's not like her brain has been a particularly active member of her body till now, but she can't help gasping at the crescent shaped marks on his chest.

He follows her gaze and looks down, "Yeah, you might want to look into cutting those talons the next..."

She interrupts (of course she does), "Should I dial emergency? Did you just have an attack of '_Have you lost your fucking mind_'? The next time this happens is over my dead body."

"Necrophilia is hardly my style. And if you would just resist the allure of hearing yourself speak and let me _finish, _I was _going _to say-- the next time you find some other freak."

There's this moment she thinks she's going to hit him. Hard. Wipe that look off his face and make him hurt just as much as her body hurts. Break him a little like he plain sailed through all her secret fantasies and dreams of champagne and satin. And she thinks she might hate herself a little more because she knows that it hadn't mattered in the end. And she's not ready to question _why_. But she doesn't because then it'll be more than it is, and she's not going to allow that.

She turns away, every line of her body screaming rejection. She only has time to process his sharp intake of breath before his hand is on her bare back and to her utter mortification her stomach clenches in something so close to desire, it makes her sick.

"_Don't touch me_."

He doesn't listen (years of practice, she'd say). And continues to touch her. And through the haze in her mind, it registers that it stings every time he puts his finger on yet another spot, and it's not like that's symbolic or anything. She flinches as his fingers burn through her skin almost literally and shifts away.

"You're hurt," he says grimly.

She almost laughs. That's not a secret; her whole body feels like it's been whipped and if _this _is what _that _feels like afterwards then she's pledging celibacy post-haste. (Except she can't because then Derek will be the only one. Ever. And she's damned if she's going to let that happen.)

His hands are on her back again, except this time it's soothing. Like chocolate ice-cream after heartbreaks. And he's not allowed to make her feel like that. He's not allowed to touch her except to shove her back when she tries to create feel-good-family-moments. He's not allowed to pretend that he cares.

And the sight of the lotion in his hands is almost surreal, and for a moment she wonders if this whole thing's been a particularly potent dream/nightmare, "What are...what do you think you're doing?"

"You're hurt," he repeats sullenly, as if it's explanation enough, "The bed sheet…it's left burns over your body. Seriously, _mattress burns_, Casey? Can we say _princess_," he adds in for good measure. And if she hadn't known him, she may have been fooled. Problem is, living with someone for four years really does a number on you, "...so just shut up and let me do…whatever."

His hands are on her back again and she leans in a little (because she's a stupid girl anyway, with a foolish boy and that's sort of both the beginning and the end) and she _knows- _this is the point where she should say something.

(And this is the point where she doesn't).

* * *

"Okay," he says, cradling his head in his hands, "You're delusional if you think I'm going to break it to Nora. Crazy, hormonal new mothers are not my forte, _you _deal with her."

She speaks (or tries to but her tongue seems to be stuck to the roof of her mouth in outrage), "I'm sorry? _What _did you just say?"

"Are you fucking deaf, Casey?"

"No," she snaps, "Insane more like it. I thought you just said we're going to tell _mom_."

He looks at her in something that's so close to surprise that she might even have mistaken it for the real thing, "Oh, you'd rather she find out from Mrs. Davis that we're in a relationship? Since you'll obviously tell Emily, who'll even more obviously broadcast it in the local news channel if she can't get the nationals. If that's what you want…"

(She thinks that this is one of those moments in life in which she should have had a glass of water so she could spit it out dramatically. Or one of those moments where there should be emergency oxygen masks). But it's not like her luck's been anything to write home about recently, "We're in a..._what the hell are you talking about_?"

"Hell," he snorts, "what a joke. Caught by a half-witted virgin without enough sense to know what the time of the day is. A relationship with _you _will at least teach me to appreciate my life when I'm _not _in a relationship with you more."

"Why," she says, and she's not sure she has enough strength to combat the dangerous gleam in his eyes.

"Because," he looks at her steadily, "it's not in my routine to go around seducing innocent basketcases. Even if they happen to have occupied the bedroom next to mine for a better part of my teenage life."

"You," she flounders around for a word strong enough and then settles for an old favorite, "you _jerk_."

"It'll be pretty easy," he muses loudly, "since our bedrooms are practically together and the rest of the people are too far away. My room's bigger and it doesn't smell like a powder-room at a sorority house so I think that narrows it..."

"Are you planning a relationship that's one long orgy?" She asks, furious beyond belief.

"Hey, at least we finally found an area that we're compatible in. And to think you've been waiting for some sibling bonding since forever now."

"How can you," and she's too quiet (maybe he won't hear), "how can you act like this about…this."

"Why aren't you freaking out," he counters just as quietly, and maybe she's just making this out to be what she wants it to be, it isn't like she doesn't have imagination (idiocy) enough for it, "how can you not have freaked out about how wrong this is and how it's probably illegal. How can you fucking not have mentioned that you wanted chocolate and strawberries and soft music? Some retarded Ivanhoe to carry you over the threshold and...worship you...or whatever."

And maybe she should stop him shaking her like that because it hurts a little, but he's looking at her and it doesn't seem to matter a whole lot, "I ruined your first night, Case. Your first time and why the _fuck _don't you say anything. Why did you let me...unless you..."

She shoves his hand away with unnecessary violence and gets up, wrapping one of the sheets around herself, because she knows what this is about (this is about that guy who plays dolls with his kid sister and feels her hugs can cure broken hearts. This is about the guy who goes on national television for a dance competition when he doesn't know the first thing about dancing, this is about that guy who has too many smooth lines and calls her mother when her boyfriend kisses her cousin), "I'm not going to get into a 'relationship' with you, so you're just going to have to live with yourself." She shrugs a little, trying to match his matter-of-fact tones (learned from the best), "Anyway, virginity is overrated. I'll just pretend this never happened."

"Oh, will you," he asks, his fists clenching against the mattress, "Are you _sure_, Casey? Because from what I remember of last night, those gasps and sighs didn't sound fake. Will it be that easy to forget your first feel of skin against skin, even though virginity is apparently so _overrated_. It never even registered with me because you were so eager with your hands and mouth and those…"

"_Shut up_," she said, her anger flaring again, "You're so smug. You think you took a part of me because you took my virginity? It doesn't mean a freaking _thing. _I'm not getting into a 'relationship' with you because your under-active guilt complex is overheated. You have enough experience to override last night? You needn't worry your head about it, _bro, _I'll gain my own experience, from someone with whom I'm more than a sex toy with easy availability..."

His eyes glint dangerously and for a moment she thinks she's gone too far (maybe three years ago), but he just continues, his voice made of sugar-coated steel, "You know, we seem to have hit a snag in our _relationship _already. You appear to be implying that this is somehow all my doing. Let me remind you, if I treated you like a sex-object then you did the exact same to me, _sis._ And if that makes me an irredeemable lecher, then where does that leave you? The female equivalent, that's where."

She opens her mouth but he's already beat her, "...Or are you implying that under this whole veneer of 'intense dislike' and chagrin you've been in love with me all this while."

(It's almost a nano-second and it's with scientific interest that she wonders whether it's possible to judge that miniscule broken piece of time, but he's looking at her with wide eyes and for a moment he's that innocent kid she's seen in his younger pictures).

"Don't be _ridiculous_," she bites out, "your over-inflated ego seems to have extended beyond the room capacity."

(That's obviously the reason why she feels like she's suffocating. Because she is and...could he just _stop looking like that_).

"You are, aren't you."

She walks forward without any clear aim, and it's when she's in front of him that she decides.

And this time _she's _kissing him and it feels like…like. She had a vocabulary for it, except she doesn't seem to remember half the words and it's still Derek. And maybe...

"Lust," she says, lifting her head from his, her wild eyes meeting his inscrutable ones, "Don't tell me _you're _confusing it for something else. I thought _you _were experienced."

(And she doesn't remember the trembling of his hands against her shirt buttons and she _definitely _doesn't remember _not tonight_. Not one bit).

"Maybe," he says running his tongue over his lower lip, "maybe next time you can try and work on the delivery. Just a little actor-to-actor advice. Don't ruin spectacular comebacks with shoddy acting."

"Fuck you," she moves away to the bathroom, because he's a moron. And he can't understand. And she has a sickening feeling she's going to cry.

"You already did."

* * *

_Derek is very deliberately trying to do a 'relationship' thing and Casey doesn't think they're compatible. So this should be a little payback on Casey's behalf for all those people who felt she was getting the worse end. Derek's snarkiness is just guilt talking._

_And the "same difference" line shall not be repeated in all chapters now because I personally don't think it applies any longer. Too much line crossing, I tell you :)_


	16. Chapter 16

a/n I AM sorry. Really. Real Life is too damn interfering. I wish I had a pause button. I love you all for the wonderful reviews :) Hopefully, I can complete in a few more chapters. It's like a rattling ghost in my life which doesn't leave me in peace! I hope you like this though :D  
Also, much thanks to everyone who PM'd me and prodded me. See, it always works, I have an overactive guilt complex!

**Disclaimer: **Disclaimed. Any M&B that might have found its way in here is also not mine.

_

* * *

_

"Is everything okay?"

"Oh, yeah, everything's fine. Should make a full recovery."

"…And will _you _make a full recovery?"

* * *

She can't face the manager in the morning. It's just…weird. Like, she's the same but she really isn't. Like it shows on her face or something. In bright neon letters. And it's with a start of irritation that she realizes that she doesn't even need to _look _at Derek to see where he's standing. Her body's playing that old childish game of hot and cold with the increasing/decreasing distance between their bodies.

(Maybe she's always been a closet nymphomaniac and just never realized it. Because there is obviously no other reason she'd be reacting like this. Since she is in no way attracted to..._him, _so the sanest conclusion is that her body is responding to stimulus of his being...male, instead of who he _is. _Because who he _is _is practically synonymous to unattractive and annoying and sexual, which isn't the same thing as sexy at all. And it's not like she's not even thinking this because yesterday never happened today).

And he has absolutely no right to be so unaffected and swing the car keys like that. The soft clinking is irritating, even more than the fact that he can still walk as if he owns the world.

"Stop jangling the keys," she snaps as he comes into view.

"Anything else?" He asks, mock curtsying, "Am I breathing too loudly and taking up too much of your air? Does my_ girlfriend _want me to stop? Anything for you, Case."

(_She's _already pretty much stopped breathing, so it's only fair that he does too).

"I have no idea what your imaginary fantasy woman wants," she says sweetly, (why wasn't he giving up on this?) "but if you don't stop..."

He steps closer and crosses his arms, (and since when has he been _taller _than her?) his eyes gleaming with an insolence that makes it difficult for her to look into them directly because she's not strong enough, not for that "Then what?"

"Then," she looks past him at the tree in the distance, (it's very interesting, the leaves are...are...a very...different shade of green. Like flecks in his...no...and they're all shaped like those candy drops that he'd secretly been stealing from Edwin's Halloween stash each year because he couldn't bear to admit that he actually liked them and--the leaves are interesting just because. No particular reason. Not everything has a reason. It's the way the world functions), "...then when we've to go home in a bus or something, I'll tell mom and George that you totaled our car."

"_My _car, you mean. We haven't even begun the dating rituals yet and you're already claiming ownership of my things?"

She opens her mouth, but he's already placed a finger on it, pre-empting her move and yes, she hates him. A lot. And maybe loves him a little, but that's just an emotional reaction at having been... physically close to someone (he'd touched her, oh…_god_) It has nothing to do with actual, real _love_. She knows about these things, because she's read about them. It's just a messed-up emotional response that she can't help because of some chemical imbalance. (And that's all there is to it).

"Also," he snorts, breaking her inner monologue (thank god), "do you have temporary memory loss or..."

"Amnesia," she cuts in shoving his disturbing finger away (because she's still herself and one confusing night of utter insanity isn't going to change that. At. All).

He continues like he hasn't heard, "...something, because let me remind you, Casey, it was _you _who told me about the "other" car which turned out to be a figment of your imagination and..."

She cuts in again (it's way easier than looking at him talking and not remembering how those notatallsoft lips had felt when...when...), "They'll never believe you over me."

She looks up at him defiantly and for a moment they're just staring at each other (and she doesn't remember with startling clarity what he looks like when he's bending over her and...), and then suddenly his face twists into a half-smirk, which is so surprising that it draws her attention to his lips inadvertently (and no, just...no).

"You're learning," he says approvingly, as if he's actually _proud _of the fact that she's starting to be as sneaky as...as...well, _him_.

"The only problem of course," he continues, "being that The Prince is perfectly fine and your story loses credibility unless you mention that we...," he pauses for a miniscule fragment of time and she notices that pause with something akin to surprise because she'd been holding her breath during it, "...we spent the night in a motel."

She can't look at him either now, or go into that night and mattress burns and too-soft hair or question the backward tilt of the universe.

"_What_," and she's outraged, "There's nothing wrong with the car? We spent the night in...in that place when we could've just gone home. This was all your doing wasn't it Derek? You lied so we'd...we'd have to go to that motel. And you fucking _planned _it, didn't you? What did you think, that now Sally's left you, just like every single _fucking _girl in your life, and you'll have to wait a bit to find another one in college so you'll do the easiest thing because I'm always right _there _and what's easier than making a fool of your stupid, naive stepsister and..."

"Casey..."

Through the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach and the non-stop word-vomit, she can see him flinch, and maybe if he had the necessary organs for _feeling _anything then that look in his eyes could almost be classified as something else. But he doesn't, and it isn't.

"No, Derek," and maybe it's just..._she slept with him last night _and he _kissed_ her and told her to _keep her eyes open_ and he's in her head and he's not leaving and her mom's in the _hospital _and her books didn't tell her how this pseudo love was supposed to _go away_ and she's _not _going to cry in front of him and... she just can't stop now, "_you _listen to me. Did it suddenly strike you that we'll always be close together because we're _family _so we could have a nice fling on the sidelines of feel-good-family moments? And after Sally you decided to come to me to mend your broken pride, make you feel like a fucking super-hero again? You know what, Derek? You were right; I did the _exact _same to you. You were just as much a willing body instead of..._you _to me. So thank you so much for the night, it was a great experience. Thank you so goddamn much, Derek, I just…"

"…had the car towed away," he interrupts, flatly, his voice devoid of any recognizable emotion, "In the morning. While you had your little three hour cry-fest in the bathroom."

He gets in, without another word, his hands on the steering wheel, staring straight ahead.

She gets in too, with this stranger whom she's known so many years of her life. He looks ahead, she looks out the window.

They don't talk the entire way. (He still doesn't get out of her head).

* * *

Being back home is like a… misstep. She feels too old, especially when Marti's looks at Lizzie for assistance and Edwin tells Derek to "make his own sandwich".

(Before looking at him, emitting a high-pitched yelp and scurrying to make it. But still).

George takes one look at them on the doorstep and proceeds to tell them exactly how irresponsible it was for them to come without informing anyone since they could have been kidnapped on the way and nobody would have know where they were, and with Nora in the hospital, he wouldn't even have been to let anyone know because…

He talks for sometime, till Derek reminds him that Nora's in the hospital and he doesn't need to. At which point he abruptly changes course and tells him not to kill Edwin and her to let Marti know that even if the child is a boy, she can still dress him up and doesn't need to dump him in the sea.

"Don't ask," he says tiredly looking at their inquiring faces.

Right on cue Marti comes in and tells them that if the new baby is a boy she shall throw him into the sea, declaring, "I want a sister", just as a loud crash sounds from the kitchen with a following "Ed-_win_".

They go to meet Nora and she'd always thought that all that stupid stuff about pregnant women glowing was all a myth and then she looks at her mother and she's actually glowing and there's this unfamiliar ache in the pit of her stomach because she's so _beautiful, _she just never knew it, till it was so obvious like it is now_. _

(It's weird because it's too normal. The world hasn't stopped turning just because she can't stop looking at the back of his head and unconsciously clenching her hands. It's weird because they're all so much the same and nothing's really changed when everything has).

* * *

"He can be amusing."

"Yes," she said, "he can also be unprincipled. And a jerk. And a cad. The closest I've ever come to pleasure in his company is when we mutually ignore each other."

"I'm sure _that's _not the closest you've come to pleasure in his company. Considering recent…er…developments. "

There's silence as she tries to find a suitable retort and fails.

"He may have changed," Lyra essays at last, her voice sounding too far away, as if she belongs to another world entirely.

She tries to settle a little more comfortably against the tiling of the closed shower, holding the phone like a lifeline, "Changed?" she snorts, "Derek? Well he may have shed a few skins; snakes usually do, I believe. But they get glossier ones in their place."

Lyra is silent for a minute, "Was that an innuendo about how good his skin is to touch?"

"Lyra!"

"So what you're saying is that you wish you hadn't slept with him?"

(She'll have to explain to Lyra that their bathroom doesn't get good enough connectivity and phone-cuts are the norm rather than the exception).

* * *

There's a late night call from George...

…_hey_ look, the world finally tilted a little more on its axis.

(But as she stares at her little brother, and their families- family- crowd around with expressions that she can't find words for, she thinks there's nothing quite in the world she'd have given this up for).

* * *

"I always said I wanted a brother," says Marti sleepily, snuggling closer to Derek.

Edwin turns his snort into a long drawn out coughing attack at a glare from his brother, leading Lizzie to ask him if he needed anything for his throat.

"…Like maybe a knife or a piece of rope or something."

"God, Lizzie. Let go, okay, it was a _joke_. How was I supposed to know that Chris would take it seriously? And anyway, I totally did you a favor. Now he wants to see this tattoo of…er…Dora the Explorer. Maybe you'll finally get to first base."

They both turn to look at their older siblings, a little guiltily.

"I don't want to know," she says tiredly, "just sleep, okay."

They go upstairs, arguing all the way. It's a little familiar. And very different.

* * *

"Go on," he says gesturing with one hand, leaning against the door, "nothing I haven't seen before."

She stops dancing abruptly, and is intensely aware of her hair matted to her face, the sweat dripping down her body, soaking her shirt. It's the only way she's ever known of dealing and he knows that too, so now he'll know that…

Her eyes fall on his hands. And she immediately looks at his face as he drops the hockey bag on the side, his other hand holding his skates.

(And yeah, she knows too).

"Play with me," he says, "basketball."

She snorts, "Why, so you can prove your 'manly prowess'? No, thanks, Derek."

"I'm not good at it," he says, "It's neither you nor me."

"You played with Sam all the time," she interrupts, like saying someone else's name will make this normal. But they were never very normal, anyway.

"I always lost," he says abruptly, "Sam was a damn good player."

She steals a glance at him then, because he never admits to losing. Ever.

(Of course she agrees. She still wants that one chance to hit him hard).

And later, when they're on the court and her entire world has been reduced to adrenalin and his eyes, she thinks she wouldn't do too much of it because it's too easy to get used to passing close enough and crashing hard into him, because at least then she knows that it hurts them both. And their game mostly only has losers. He's way better than her and she knows he probably lied about losing (he never plays a game where he can lose) but she can still slam harder and who's really playing anyway?

Her senses are almost painfully heightened, where nip of the wind feels like and ice shard and each sound is impossibly loud. He steals the ball from her and shoots and as she bends, her shirt falls lower and he misses and actually she's not even sure what they're playing any longer, except that it passes away time and she gets to touch him occasionally and she's really, really pathetic.

They play till they're both drenched with sweat and even when it starts to drizzle a little, she doesn't give a lecture on the possibility of death by pneumonia the next day. She feels her shirt sticking to her and a stab of satisfaction every time he loses concentration, but then his is sticking to him and she's staring just as much, so she's not exactly sure what the moral here is. Just that the thud of the basketball and the slippery court beneath her feet feels good. And that Derek's always been good-looking and she's always registered it because she is his stepsister but she's just an ordinary girl. And even though he's deliberately playing his best and not letting her win out of a sense of chivalry that most guys would have, she doesn't mind, because it's Derek and that's the kind of guy he is. And it's not like she hasn't always known that. It's just that when she's running and avoiding him, only to have him expertly steal the ball away, she doesn't even remember what exactly she had been dancing for in the first place.

"Breathe," he says, as she falls onto the grass, on the sides, in sheer exhaustion, and she jumps at the pressure of his fingers on her shoulder.

For one crazy instant her resolve is firm to never breathe again, simply because that is what he's told her to do, but then she pulls in air with a gasp, frustrated that her body has betrayed her will so quickly. She draws in a ragged breath and he's breathing too and they're not in synchrony at all. That's always been the focal point about them. They're like two planets, exerting a pull but never really coming too close because they're spinning in different orbits. She stares up at the sky, and even this cold night is almost too hot to bear, and he as he lies beside her, they're miles apart. Just close enough to touch.

(She doesn't touch and he doesn't move. But her body aches from all the exertion and that feels better than being perfectly alright has felt in a long while).


	17. Chapter 17

_a/n: My life seems to be lived out in a series of apologies, so I'm very sorry :( And trying to bring about resolution in a mess can be boring, so I apologize for that too. EreshkigalGirl made a fanmix for updating, so yay! I can't be sure whether any one still wants to read this with my horrible updates and all, but there are only (I think) two more chapters left. Thank you for sticking through :)_

_DISCLAIMER: Disclaimed_

* * *

Oddly enough, sometimes when she looks at him, she still wants that feel-good family moment that she never had. It's a little sickening and probably has a medical syndrome attached to it.

* * *

"Your class certainly did a very…thorough job," George has obviously completed the first three chapters of his 'Big Book on Tact'.

They look around the house; boughs of tinsel and holly cover every available surface. A couple of Halloween decorations stare menacingly at them, while a full size banner wishes everyone a 'Very Happy New Year.' A lonely looking toy shaped like a stuffed turkey graces the couch, and balloons genially telling everybody to have a 'Happy Birthday' lie at startling intervals on the ground.

"Yeah," says Lizzie, her expression half-frozen, "recycling…it's the way to go. It all looks very…recycled."

She blinks her eyes slowly, as Lizzie catches her gaze, but the nightmarish assortment of color refuses to bow down to whatever law of physics it is that rules the glare of Excessively Shiny Things. He's the only one who's looking around with a half-amused expression, standing next to Edwin (but then he's probably so used to girls in skimpy things covered with extreme amounts of glitter that it probably doesn't even register with him anymore), "yeah, it's all garish...liciously amazing."

"Do you like it?" Marti grins, pleased, "I told everyone that Nora was coming back today and they wanted to help. It's very symbolic. The tinsel is symbolic of good-will that I shall extend to him by dressing him up like the girl he should have been, and the New Year is symbolic of new beginnings and the turkey is symbolic of how he should be thankful for being lucky enough to be born with the McDonald-Venturis."

"What are the monster masks symbolic of?"

"They're symbolic of the fact that Dimi is stupid at symbolism."

* * *

"It's so nice to see you both. It's been ages, hasn't it? How's the hockey going, Miss Case? And have you gotten your brother to loosen up a little and stop pushing himself so hard?"

That's certainly symbolic of her mother's tiredness, "Mom, it's been great catching up but I really think you should go get some sleep. You're way too strung up. I can take care of the baby for a while."

They both stare at the cot lying next to the couch in silence, "You know, Casey, he looks exactly like you did when you were younger."

And she's heard George tell Marti, Edwin and Derek the same thing at different intervals of time, and her mother probably said it to Lizzie too, but it still makes her smile, "He's _my _brother, isn't he? Now go!"

"But you're leaving tomorrow, and I really did want to talk to you. You shouldn't feel that the coming of another child changes anything in the house, Case. You're still as much the eldest daughter of this house and I still love you just as much as I always did and…"

She interrupts, a little amused, "It's okay, mom, you know I've read all those Parenting books you bought at garage sales and let gather dust, you needn't quote them to me. And we'll be back after the exams for a longer time. Just go get some rest before you burn out."

Her mother smiles tiredly, her eyes drooping, as she gets up to leave, "You always were so…so…"

"…Klutzy?" he finishes as he enters the room, as if on cue, "Nora must really be losing it, if she's letting you take care of something that's not made of re-enforced concrete."

"Says the guy who failed his license test five times," she retorts back. And it's like she's forgotten how to be normal with him. Or maybe this _is _normal and she's forgotten what it used to feel like.

He raises an eyebrow, "that relates to this how?" (It doesn't, but since when has that ever been a criterion).

She doesn't reply, going back to rocking the cradle instead. But he doesn't take the hint and leave, because he's obviously geared to do the one thing that is sure to irritate her the most in any situation. It's like he has a seventh sense for it or something. (His sixth sense is obviously the ability to stand close to her and not be affected at all. Unlike her. She's not exactly sure she has any functioning senses at all. Because their signals are interpreted by the brain, sixth grade biology taught her that, and hotel rooms and sleepless nights seem to have shut off that organ effectively).

He sits on the ground near the foot of her couch and she can't help feeling he's done it deliberately; she can't see his eyes at all and it's completely disconcerting.

"I want to go back."

It takes a while for her to realize that she's the one who's spoken. And that wasn't what she'd been planning on saying. She hadn't been planning on saying anything at all, just on sitting in silence for as long as it would take for him to realize that she didn't want him. (Here. Didn't want him here. Since there was no question of the other kind of wanting or anything).

He flips through his comic nonchalantly, "I knew you did."

"No," she's snapping now, but he always strings her up, till she's wound up too tight "no, you didn't know. You don't know everything there is to know in the world."

"But I do know this," he counters calmly, "You don't fit in anymore."

She clenches her fist, "What is that supposed to mean?"

He shrugs (and maybe if he could turn around at this moment, she'd really like to pull a Ryan and hit him hard), "College. You're different. You can't fit in the same image you'd built for yourself at home. And if you stayed here too long maybe they'd realize that too. And you've been pretending to be that for so long that you don't even know how not to be it."

He gets up and he can't _leave_, not after saying something like that, so she stops him, "what the hell was that?" and obviously the fact that she doesn't understand what he means just means that it didn't mean anything in the first place. It's Derek, it's not like he's deep or anything.

He sidesteps her easily, "if you can't understand that then the whole visit back has obviously addled your mind." He pats her shoulder cheerfully, "don't worry, nobody will notice. It isn't much of a change."

She stares at his retreating back in outrage. (And doesn't kiss him. That's probably the moral of this story).

He stops halfway up the stairs to his old room, "What do you want?"

It's too late for trick questions, "Derek, just—"

"Do you want this," he makes a strange gesture and she can't get it at all, "us. Whatever."

Like they could ever be contained in a single word. She turned to look at the cradle, and maybe the baby did look like her. And him too. Because it was _their _sibling, "no."

"Fine," he says, and if she'd been expecting pain-filled declarations of unrequited love she'd have been sorely disappointed. It was probably good for her that she always lowered her expectations to the least possible when it came to him, "fine. This one time you get what you want. Enjoy the feeling."

She tries. The feeling isn't very enjoyable, but she still tries. (That obviously counts, right?)

_c_

There are way too many goodbyes and he doesn't talk to her on the way back and they don't lose the way and normalcy makes its way back into her dictionary.

(Almost).

_c_

"Isn't that much fun being ordinary, is it?"

"Maybe if I don't say anything, she'll go away," she says out loud, thumbing frantically through her book. (Was chapter twenty in the course? They'd touched upon it, but they hadn't really gone in-depth. Maybe she could just consult someone and see if her notes were…)

"All this while," Lyra lies sprawled across her bed, and it's like being with Derek all over again, except not, "you thought you were special and that ordinary rules didn't apply to you. And then you wake up one day and realize you enjoy plain, hot sex, like any common person. And lose your head over pretty boys. That must have been a major ideological fall."

"Don't bother explaining. No really, don't feel yourself obligated. In fact if you could just leave my room…"

Lyra messes her sheet a little more, and she's _one second _away from losing it, "I'm the simple kind of person. I call it like I see it."

She looks up, "you mean you don't calculate your insults. You're just nasty by nature?"

Lyra loses her smile, it's kind of scary actually, "Casey, stop it. You're slaving too hard over these exams."

"Well you know me," she tries to smile, but it'd probably waste too much muscle energy. Almost fifteen muscles are used in smiling, she needs those for other work right now, "I need to be on top of stuff."

"I didn't know 'being on top of stuff' had a 'suicide' clause to it."

"Don't be melodramatic."

Lyra looks at her, hard, "trying to forget… something... through this slow torture?"

"I think we're forgetting who's the psych major here."

"Casey," that's the soft, entreating, never-used voice, "you have to help me out here, okay? I'm not Derek. I can't do all these things and make you so mad, that you're fine again. And to be honest, zombie!Casey is starting to freak me out."

She smiles, at least she's sacrificing those fifteen muscles in good cause, there is no way she'll let anyone think that there are certain reactions which only he can get. He's not that special. "You're a fake. You're really the mothering type at heart."

"Yeah, no," Lyra says, her face in freak-out mode, "I don't think we could have two of those in this dorm. One of you is more than enough. Have you eaten?"

She genuinely laughs this time, "yes, I have, mom. Thanks for asking."

"Really?" It's like she has laser vision or something.

"No," she says truthfully, "but I just have a lot of work, and I'll be sure to puke whatever I eat."

Lyra sighs, "stop running yourself to the ground, okay? Just call him, talk to him, do whatever will get you back to your normal, dysfunctional self."

Like she would do that. Call him. Wasn't like he'd called her or anything-- that 'fine' of his had really been a shorter version of 'the end'. And he was just her stepbrother; she didn't need to talk to him to survive. How absolutely lame would that be?

"I'm _fine_. It's just the exams, okay. I have a _scholarship _to keep- to live up to.I have to do well, what if they take it and give it to someone else? I need that, and I need to work for it."

"I don't think it'd be much use to you if you're dead," Lyra's back to her usual vicious cheerfulness.

"Okay," she turns around, breathing deeply, "okay, tell me something truthfully. You don't think there's anything weird in this. I slept with my stepbrother while my mother was in the hospital giving birth to _our _sibling. You don't think that's strange or sick or not normal or…" she stops, because yes, it is. It's sick and she's sick.

Lyra doesn't even look at her, "I think there's something strange in that abrupt centre positioning of the topic that had been going on in between the lines," she flips a page of a textbook that isn't even hers, "of course it's strange. It's very, very weird."

It odd hearing it from someone else. She's always known it, but maybe she's read too many books and seen too many crappy movies and she just forgot how real life works. And there's a lesson in temptation somewhere in between here. About resisting and not being drawn in. But she's not special, she's just ordinary, and she's a hypocrite because she can't control her feelings at all.

"But look at you," Lyra breaks her inner-monologue, looking up in frustration, "you're a freak. _Cleaning_ is your idea of fun. You think Sundays were made so you could get a head start on extra course work, after you finish your assignments on Friday nights. You _color-code _your work schedule. There's obviously nothing about you that's normal! And I don't see why you should start with love."

(Love?)

She splutters with indignation, "_Love…_I'm not…there's no way… I don't _love _my brother. In that way. Or any way actually. Unless it's a 'love to hate you' thing."

Lyra looks at her with mild curiosity, "didn't you say Derek was an expert liar."

"He's an expert at anything that involves treachery, deceit, duplicity, perfidy and naked girls," she snaps, "what does that have to do with anything?"

"Funny," her absolutely annoying roommate contemplates thoughtfully, "you'd have thought after four years of living together some of it would have rubbed off."

"Look," she takes a deep breath (the whole truth and nothing but the truth), "he's in love with Sally. You don't know them like I do. When they first met, he was…different. Really different. He was nicer and did sweet things and ... wrote her love songs… and thought pizza was tastier with her and when she came to see him play, he played harder. You don't know what he was like when she left for Toronto. I've never seen him so… like that. You don't know."

"Why did they break up?"

"What?"

"Why did Derek and Sally break up the first time?"

"Because," she pauses a second, her air supply dangerously cut off by the memories ("_I don't know, okay. It's just… pizza's tastier with her, and when she comes to see me play, I…play harder."_) "She was leaving."

Lyra considers this for a moment, "they broke up because she was leaving for Toronto?"

"Yeah."

"Can he drive?"

She snorts, "Legally, yes, unfortunately for the citizens of Canada."

"Their break-up does sound like a Romeo-and-Juliet death scene thing then. Metaphorically, of course. I mean, she was _leaving, _and high phone bills are so not-conducive to love. Good thing they broke up."

"Lyra, it's not that simple. Not everything is that easy."

"So there was this guy, he calls up tech support and goes 'my computer isn't working, the screen doesn't light up when I switch it on! Help me.' They stay at it for an hour, and they try everything and you know why the screen didn't light up?"

"Because he hadn't switched on the monitor. My counselor at school told me once," she smiles, remembering Paul, it had been so long since she'd thought of him, "It's just as lame and unfunny now as it was then."

"You know what the moral of the story is?" Lyra persists, and maybe if half of this persistence went into her assignments… "Everything is that easy. You, Derek, love or whatever. It's like a two plus two equation, and maybe you would see that if you weren't too busy killing yourself over answering through a differential calculus method."

* * *

"Are you okay?"

(Was there some sort of an award for the thousandth person who'd ask her this?)

"Yes, Richard, I'm perfectly fine".

"Because you look ill. You're working yourself too hard over these exams, cut yourself some slack."

"You know me better than that… slacking is Derek's domain."

Richard looks straight ahead for a moment, "pretty much everything is."

She feels a little strange, heavy, "did you say something?"

"No. Let's go back, it's getting cold."

* * *

She steps out of the exam hall and waits for the ecstatic after-exam feeling to set in. It doesn't. Her head feels heavy and her nose is blocked and she feels too warm in the clothes she's bundled herself up in.

"Derek," she recognizes instantly the completely messed-up red-brown hair that is his usual on-the-day-of-the-exam state, "hello."

He turns around in what seems a slow motion scene, _god _her head was killing her, "Casey?"

"Yeah," she says brightly, foolishly, "how were your exams? I haven't seen you in ages"

He looks at her, frowning slightly, "are you…okay?"

(There, that was the one thousandth. He had exclusive rights to… well something to do with hearts and breaks. She hoped he would use it wisely).

"I'm fine; it's good to see you."

"It's good to see me," he repeats slowly, "did you bang your head getting out of the classroom?"

She actually giggles, with no other redemptive name for the sound, "no." Although she wishes she had, maybe it would have made the pounding go away. "I enjoyed sleeping with you. Thank you."

He stares at her for a moment, his eyes hard, "Is this your idea of a joke or something?"

She smiles up at him, radiantly, "A lot. I think about it a lot. Sometimes I can't sleep because I can't get you out of my head." There's something wrong, but she's too tired to think about it at the moment.

She doesn't like the way he's staring, it makes her feel too self conscious and stupid and… "Are you on drugs?" He never stops speaking.

"No," she's shocked, "I'm not stupid. Drugs are… bad for you. They do bad things to your body. It's very bad."

"Since when do you use the word _bad_," he places his hand on her forehead, (and since when is he allowed to do that?) "You're way too hot."

She's not stupid; she knows the reply to that, even if her eye-lids feel too heavy to keep up, "thank you."

He looks up, startled, and then laughs and she realizes she's quite missed the sound. Why did she stay away from it for so long?

"Let's get you home," he's speaking in his Marti-voice, "okay?"

"But it's too far," she protests half-heartedly because she really does want her mother and if he could, "and we got lost last time."

"Not that home," he says, "your dorm. Let's get you there."

He lifts her up, "it's very close," he says like she needs an explanation (she doesn't, she just likes being in his arms, she doesn't care why, and will her body never stop hurting?) "Although you really need to lay off whatever you've been eating, you're way too heav…" he stops abruptly, "have you eaten anything at all?"

"I'm not fat," she retaliates indignantly, even though it takes too much effort, "you can't lift me up because you're too scrappy."

"Have. You. Eaten?" He's saying it like he has something to be mad about, when _she_ should be mad because she feels odd and he isn't even being nice to her.

"I refuse to answer the question," she says haughtily, "on grounds of, misappropriation of…misdepreciation of… something."

He pulls her closer, and she sighs a little, "you wore that surgeon costume when I was sick on my sixteenth birthday. You looked stupid."

"Thanks," he says dryly.

"No problem," she kisses his neck, "you smell good."

"Casey," she can almost hear him gritting his teeth, that's like a whole disjunction (or was it jointment? Or disjunctiontment?) of senses overlapping into one another, "don't make this harder than it is."

She kisses his neck again, annoyed, as he inhales sharply, "that's punishment. It's not hard to carry me."

"Ask," he says, the intensity scorching her a little, "ask before doing that."

She considers it a moment, "can I kiss you?"

"No," flatly.

She kisses his ear, "I never listen to what you say."

"_Casey_," it's drawn out of him almost in a long breath of pain.

"Are you hurt?" She demands.

"Not exactly," he says, and she doesn't know why but it feels like he's being sarcastic.

"So it's the kind of hurt that doesn't show? Like you're hurt inside," she pats his shoulder in sympathy, "I know how it feels."

"Nothing as deep as that," he says, "but I'm trying to restrain myself from making juvenile jokes about what's actually _hard_. You're a nightmare when you're ill. Or drunk. Or when you're neither ill nor drunk."

She tries to figure that out but it would take too much effort, and her eyes feel… and her body feels too… and her head hurts and she wants to cry for some reason but she doesn't even know why, and she really wants to know before she expends the energy it will take for crying and Derek's carrying her home and there's something very right about it. Or very wrong. What does it even mean. Maybe she _is _on dru…

Blackness.


End file.
